The man greeted us with such familiarity, I thought at first my son knew him, but quickly it became apparent his enthusiasm came from a different recognition.
A familiar story began to unfold. I stopped him. I'd heard it many times on the street, a tale calculated and transactional. He needed money and he could see we had some to spare.
Don't give me that one, I said. But as I am attuned to lies, I am also reluctant to judge. I was willing to listen.
He and his wife were from Milwaukee, he said. She was pulling a roller bag and wearing tiara over her knit cap. They had come here to get a fresh start, but were still getting their bearings, for the moment, stuck sleeping under a bridge along the Greenway.
I asked him if he knew about Peace House and invited them to visit.
Can we get showers there?
No, but you can get meals and be connected to other resources.
Generally, I don't hand out money on the street. I know dozens of people who need money, people I trust and whose autonomy I respect. If I am guarded about giving them money, why pass it out to a stranger whose story is highly suspect? And why interrogate him because I am suspicious?
I hate being forced to judge, because I know the game, and I also know people in dire straits helped by generosity.
My money is power unless it is given in love. My questions are demeaning unless asked in genuine curiosity. How can I love this stranger I think is trying to scam me?
It is my choice. My heart is full after sharing a movie with my son. I can spare anything in my wallet. I can also stiff-arm the man and plead my volunteerism, my need for impartiality, my white man street wisdom. I can shrug him off because I think I know what he is up to. Because I have the power to decide. Because I know there are charities and agencies and places like Peace House set up to help.
I am here and they are not. It is not about the money, one way or the other. Not about whether he sees me as a mark, but how I see him. In this moment I can judge a panhandler or simply love a fellow human being.
Shit. I don't do this, I say, as I reach for my wallet. My fingers first touch a ten.
So be it. I hand it over.
Can you spare another five for my wife?
How about you share your ten, I say. Then you both have five.
My son and I cross the street.
Well, that's going nowhere good, I say to him.
He nods, knowing that is true in this moment. But also, I hope, because I have shown him the saving power of love.
