The first day I met Pops, my two girls, ages 13 and 7, and I
were walking from our hotel in the city to a restaurant nearby. He was at
the corner of Robinson and Main St with his paper cup, the kind you'd get a Coke
in from a fountain dispenser at the Zoo or hotdog stand something. The kind of cup that fountain soda is
dispensed into- sturdy and kind of waxy. We dug in my purse for some
change and left him with approximately a dollar worth of pennies, nickels, and
dimes. I only had 20s for bills and didn't want to part with those.
I felt awkward though. He most likely could see the green bills that were
shoved in my purse haphazardly, and notice that I wasn’t reaching for
those.
He was standing right next to us, and I could smell the smoke on
him. I wasn't sure if it was stale cigarette smoke I smelled or if it was
from a cigar. He was about six inches shorter than me with dark,
chocolate colored skin, a knee brace on his thin right leg, a worn looking wood
cane in his right hand, and he wore a baseball cap. I don't recall if
there was a team logo on it, but it was well worn and a mixture of blue and
white.
I dropped the change in his cup and we crossed Robinson before
the thought occurred that we were going to eat- perhaps he'd like join us.
I asked the girls, who immediately agree, and I quickly scurried back
across Robinson.
"We're on our way to have breakfast," I explained.
"Would you like to join us?"
"Oh," he said hesitantly. The image came to mind
of how it would look to the staff at a fine dining establishment if I showed
up, a white middle aged woman with two young girls who were clean and well
dressed, with Pops, a beggar who may or may not be homeless but was certainly
recognizable to everyone in the downtown area as a regular on the street
corners.
"I got a sandwich in here for my lunch," he said as he
motioned to the plastic bag he carried in the same hand as his cane. I
nodded, not certain if I should say more and point out that he could have his
sandwich later.
I told him I'd see him later and hurried to catch up with the
girls who were still waiting for me across the street. I told them he
declined, and we continued to the restaurant on the corner.
I was thinking about him though, the entire time we were there.
As I added cream to my chai tea for richness, I wondered when was the
last time he had the luxury of adding cream in his coffee. Would he think
that a luxury? Was he really doing all right and just scamming by begging, when
in reality he had everything he needed? On the other hand, did he sleep
outside at night? My imagination went
wild pondering homelessness in our 'rich' country and how the people who pass
them by on a daily basis, myself included, don't seem to notice. Or we
notice and give a few bucks. Does that assuage our guilt? Have we
then done all we could do? I can't take care of every person I see on
streets corners can I? Who is responsible for these people and this
situation and what can be done about it?
The second day we came across Pops is actually the day I learned
his name and introduced the girls and myself. He smiled and told me that
Kamala was an interesting name.
"It's Indian," I answered, "it means lotus
blossom or the opening heart."
"What tribe are you from?" was his reply with a smile
on his face. After telling him I wasn't part of a tribe, he asked me what
color his eyes were. I told him they we dark, but I was having a hard
time seeing them. They were bright and clear and seemed to be reflecting
the light of everything around us.
"Blue," he said, "they're blue. I'm
fritz-creole. My daddy was from Louisiana.
My great-great-great grandmother was Caucasian. I have apache
blood and I'm also African American." I laughed and told him that
was an interesting mixture, that he IS the great American melting pot. He
chuckled and said he was a mutt.
I invited him to come with us for ice cream, but he again
declined, saying that he was working on getting a sandwich.
As I opened my purse today, I noticed the sparse amount of
change in his cup and gave him some bills to get his lunch. I felt easier
about giving- more than I had yesterday. There was a familiarity that I
felt now that I hadn't before, yet what did I really know? The personal interaction
we'd shared wasn't of much depth, at least anything tangible. I didn't
know much more about him now than I had the day before. The familiarity
might have just been from seeing him, interacting with him, previously- about
asking him to join us yesterday, which in itself open the door to knowing more
about one another on a deeper level.
I had a desire to know more about him and his life, how he
lived, what was wrong with the world and our society (according to my
standards) that resulted in some people being left behind. I mean,
what about the American dream? What about 'Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit
of Happiness'? Is that story just a myth? Does the fairy tale only
come true for some people? What does it take to have the 'American Dream'?
To keep it? What is it like from the perspective of the haves vs.
the have nots and vice versa? Is the American dream still what it used to
be? The manifest destiny has been to conquer, expand, and have more-- to
have a house and a yard, a pet, a family, the ability to buy a car or two...the
ability to buy. That's what it is. The American dream is all about
ones ability to buy desirable things. Isn't that what the emphasis of
life is? The newest technology or you're left behind, gadgets and gizmos
for the house and yard- the list never ends. Does the American dream have
more to do with 'stuff' than it does with personal contact or how we treat
people? In what ways are we, as consumers, directed to act toward one
another? Competitors or allies?
After asking what
was wrong with his knee, why he wore that brace, he told me he needs a surgery.
He's putting it off though, he explained, on account that he just wasn't
ready to do it yet. He assured me he could, at any time, go into any of the
local hospitals and they'd take care of him. I'm not so sure I believed
that, but I didn't press him any further on what exactly his ailment was.
Again, my mind crept into the territory of cynicism. Was he wearing
a brace to elicit sympathy from passersby? Was it part of the beggars ‘costume’
if you will, appearing woefully in need? I'd never know.
Next, he asked me how old I thought he was. Dang.
There's nothing I'm worse at than guessing a persons age. You know
what I mean, right? The fear. Not wanting to guess too high and
insult someone, nor too low and appear foolish. Two ages came to mind as
I gazed at his moderately wrinkled face and the whitening bits of his short
curly-haired beard, 56 and 63. I erred on the low side. Of course,
he accused me of calling him an old man to give me a hard time first and then
shared that he is 73. Truly surprised, I told him he looks much too spry
to be that old. As he laughed again, I took in the merriment and ease he
seemed to have about life. Once more, I wondered
about his life and the source of what sustains his joy.
He told us to have a good time and thanked me for the money.
Told me he was truly blessed to run into us again. I know we were
just as fortunate.
The more I thought about him over the course of that day and
evening, the more I wanted to know. He must have stories of his life that
are fascinating, whatever his living situation. Even if there wasn't anything I can do to change the situation of his life or the hundreds thousands of others like him in the U.S., I could listen to stories of his life.
Third consecutive day and just my little one and I were walking
downtown. When he saw us, he broke into a grin, his dark skin a stark
contrast to his white smile, which had a few spaces in it. As we approached, I could hear him softly
saying, "I know you. I know you."
"Hey there, Pops," I said, "how're you doing
today?"
"Oh, I'm ok. Strugglin, though. I had lunch
earlier, but I'm looking for something later on this evening."
As I opened my
purse, I mentioned how a man like him must have quite a few stories about life
to share.
"Oh, I got one or two," with a smile.
"Could we get a cup of coffee? I'd sure love to hear
one."
"Aw, baby girl, I tell you what. Next time I see
y'all we'll sit down and I'll tell a story. Right now I've got to keep
moving, but next time I promise you," and he gave me his hand to shake on
it.
The image of baby kitties came to mind.
I grew up on a farm and there were often litters of kittens in at least
one corner of the hay loft. We weren't able to get too close to them
right off. They took some time to warm up to us, hissin' and spittin' if
we moved faster than they were comfortable with us. Perhaps this is what
a relationship with Pops would be like. I can see finding out about him
taking a while- probably with less hissin’ though.
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