Why won’t the words stick to the page today? They keep flying off, possibly having made plans to do their own thing, much more interesting, I assume, than helping me tell this story I’m currently revising. I hate it when the words gain agency and start to do their own thing. 

I’m working in the house this afternoon. On Monday, I walked to the coffee shop, though I most definitely shouldn’t have; but after a weekend of air quality in the 120 range, I was desperate to leave the house. It would have been eminently practical to DRIVE there but nooooooo. I wanted to walk. Not a smart move, really, because after the walk I felt a little like Wile E. Coyote with an anvil on his chest. Eventually, I called my daughter for a ride home in exchange for a cold cinnamon latte, a deal I was happy to make, to be honest.

Last week, I bumped into a woman who is struggling. We’ve met before and I’m embarrassed to admit that I can’t remember her name. Usually, when I talk to someone who is unhoused or in difficulty, I introduce myself and ask their name. But it was extraordinarily hot. I was anxious to get back in my car. She began to tell her story, as is the usual practice when they want money. Generally, they don’t come right out and ask. I get that. Imagine yourself in a situation where you need to ask for help – the hardest thing many humans do – and the help you want is money. Could you go up to a stranger and ask for a few dollars? The change in their pockets? 

Look. I know all of the various opinions about helping the unhoused: that you should never give them money, that they work together and amass thousands of dollars every day, that they’re all on drugs, that they have diseases. Did you know that there’s a city in California that is considering making it illegal for the unhoused to refuse community services? Some of you might say, “That’s a good idea.” But is it? 

I have yet to talk to an unhoused or struggling person who didn’t know that there are community resources available. They aren’t stupid or infants or incapable. Some are mentally ill – who isn’t these days? Some are addicts – you personally probably know people who have substance addictions, even if you don’t realize it. (Also, to stray from the point for a second, I have never met an addict who wanted to be an addict. Never. But that’s not the same as being ready for assistance.) Some are terrible – I’m trying to think if I know of any terrible people…hmm. Stephen Miller?! Some are wary of “help” – for all the right reasons. Unhoused people are extremely vulnerable to violence. They don’t know who they can trust. And if I, for one, were told that I had to accept help or go to jail, I’d definitely be wary.

Anyway, back to my story: when I met this woman, I was in the process of dropping off a very large box at Construction Junction, a great place in East Pittsburgh to recycle cardboard and find something you definitely, absolutely need. The woman stood well back from the car – a safe distance for both of us – and started her patter. I listened while I got the box out of the trunk and then asked, “Do you want money?” (Of course, she wanted money.) She laughed and said, “Baby, I love you. Yes, I want money, if you can spare some. Also, if you can, I’d really like a ride to the church.” (Obviously, I’m paraphrasing here.)

It was so hot. I’ve given her rides before, though I know she doesn’t remember me. I said, “Sure. Get in and give me directions.” I started the car and turned the air conditioning on as high as it would go. She climbed in the passenger seat and sighed as the cold air hit her face. I told her to adjust the blowers. “Can I?” she asked. “Of course,” I said. She leaned forward and turned the vents a little so they hit her more fully. I gave her the $3 I had on me, which she accepted. She opened her hand and said, “Can you count this for me?” She had a wad of rolled up and crumbled bills. I took them, smoothed them out, and counted them. With my $3, she had $9. I folded them all together and handed them back. “Keep them safe,” I said. “It’s a dangerous world.” 

“You’re telling me,” she said and she laughed. She LAUGHED. Then, she said, “I’m so thirsty. Should I spend some of this on something to drink?” I had a bottle of water in the car. It was cold but open because I’d had a swallow earlier. I was embarrassed to offer it. Truly, I was. But, my friends, she took that bottle and drank the entire thing down in a few swallows. She apologized for drinking it all and then, she asked if she could keep the bottle so she can pee in it later…because there aren’t any safe public bathrooms. 

I drove her to the church, as she’d asked. She squeezed my hand where it rested on the gear shift and told me to be safe. And then she left. 

Many years ago, there was an elderly unhoused man – though can you really tell how old an unhoused person is? – who hung around Market Square in Pittsburgh’s Golden Triangle. I was so young then, maybe 26, and I’d see him every day when I got off the bus and walked through the Square to work at HealthAmerica in the United Steelworkers building on Boulevard of the Allies. It was probably 1994 when our friendship started. I was wary, at first, but he never got very close. He’d smile and I started to smile back. Over time, I started to watch for him. Eventually, I started bringing him treats and some change. He was particularly fond of a donut.

Sometimes, I’d go into Jenny’s, a bakery that used to be in Market Square, back in the old days, before the first renovation, when they tried to drive the unhoused from the area. I’d buy two donuts and offer them to him. He never spoke – not once in all the years I knew him – but he’d mime that he only wanted one. The other, he’d point, was for me. So, I’d take my donut out of the bag and then give him the bag. Sometimes, he’d eat his donut right there, with me. Other times, he’d fold up the bag a little and tuck it into one of his capacious jacket pockets. Who knows what else was in there?! 

I never knew his name and I never gave him one in my mind. He was simply the old man I saw almost every day. I often wondered where he stayed at night, what he did on the weekends when there were few people in town. Did he go hungry those days? Or did he save up his little treats to last as long as possible?

It was a few years later, 1997, when I saw him for the last time. I don’t know exactly what day it was. My mom had just passed away and I was walking through life in a haze of grief, not paying much attention to things, really, though I did continue to bring him little treats. And I really looked forward to seeing him everyday. I remember, in particular, that I bought two donuts one day and he wasn’t waiting outside for me like he had always done before. I took the donuts to work with me and saved one to give him later, though I had rarely ever seen him at lunch or in the evenings. And I didn’t this time, either. Then, the next day, he wasn’t there again. Or the next. And so on. I never saw him again. It was surprisingly to be devastated by his absence. I was, though, and I’ve obviously not forgotten him.

So, what’s my point? I think it’s multi-pronged. He had worth and it wasn’t measured by his bank account or clothing or house or car(s). He had worth and he didn’t have to justify it. He had worth because he existed. I doubt that the unhoused understand that. They don’t receive that message from our society. We criminalize their existence and forget that they’re humans. I doubt that they realize that they can have an impact on others – an impact that isn’t negative. But they do. I think often of the grace of that woman I drove to the church. And I remember that man I knew 30 years ago for his kindness, his eagerness to share humanity – and a donut – with SOMEONE, and his blue, blue eyes in that mass of tangled white hair and beard. 

Don’t let THEM convince you to “other” humans. We all have worth – even that despicable group in the White House – simply because we exist. 

Much love.

Hey, also, don’t forget: June 14th is the nationwide (possibly international?) No Kings protest. If you think we shouldn’t have tanks rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, or babies being torn from their mothers’ arms, you might want to join a local protest. You can find information through the nokings.org website.