I reside in the ‘leachate’ of the Dirtbin - the city centre where the most ‘feral’ members of society tend to accumulate, looking, only, for the next scrap of whatever to live on. It breaks my heart because I am inclined to remember that once upon a time, they were born to a proud mother and father. They, too, entered this world as a pure, innocent and gurgling miracle of life. Some of them might even have gone as far as becoming parents themselves. But now, weathered by the elements, circumstances beyond their control and, no doubt, a host of unspeakable experiences, they wander homeless, and far beyond reprieve.
Understandably, their value for life is far different from yours or mine. Imagine absolute emptiness, loneliness, abject poverty, and utter destitution. And the worse you smell, the worse you look… the more you are rejected by the very people who could possibly lend you a ‘life-line’ and turn things around. It’s no wonder that most of the homeless beggars I see on the street corners they now call home have lost their minds. It’s no wonder that they resort to petty crime just to quiet the din in their bellies. Do you even know what it feels like to be starving? The progression from petty to more serious and violent crime is entirely foreseeable, what with a history of bereavement and lack of love, guidance, education, and support, to name but a few of the byproducts of poverty and its associates. The psychological effects, alone, of death and dying, desolation, and rejection are bound to mould a human being that lacks empathy, heed, vision or values.
So, whilst I may fear them, as I carefully circumvent their space en route to purchase groceries or hire a DVD, I also see a breathing, bleeding, screaming averment of our failure as a society. And it makes me terribly sad. I have had to train myself not to think that far anymore, if I can help it, so as to keep my psyche on high vibration. I have to look after myself, after all. Keep it together.
I used to give them some money, but I don’t do that anymore, lest they buy alcohol, or glue, or similar versions of the ‘poor man’s drug’. I used to give food too, but have often turned back and seen it stolen by another, or discarded because they craved the escapism of a mind-altering substance over and above the nourishment of food. Besides, I’ve always leaned towards the adage: “Don’t give a man fish. Rather, teach him how to fish.”
But there is something I do try to do, in a safe manner of course. I try to give them a little bit of human-to-human respect. It does not always get appreciated, but more often than not, the result has been incredible and this is what I want to share.
We all know about the power of the languages we ‘speak’ beyond those of verbal speech. Body language is only one example. Lately, when I have passed the regulars which frequent my block, I have concentrated on not being afraid... on seeing them as what they are most basically: a human being, just like me. When they ask me for money, I stop and turn to them, look deeply and respectfully into their eyes, with a genuine smile on my face, and a gentle disposition to boot. I then say something along the lines of: “Hello! Sorry, Sir, I don’t have any money to give you. Bye.” And then I nod, or bow a little as a greeting for departure, and continue on my way. I have been blatantly honest. I do not say that I don’t have money. I say that I don’t have money to give them, and my reasons are my own and justified.
These very same individuals don’t approach me or ask me for money anymore, believe it or not! But they do greet me every time I pass them, and almost always with a wide smile and a wave! And I, of course, return the favour. For that fleeting moment, we are equals, even though I still have to swallow a soppy lump in my throat.
Now, I am not naïve enough to assume that this is necessarily a wise course of action; that it makes any semblance of a difference to the bigger picture; and that it would have the same outcome in all instances. But in my little world, it’s working for me. It has cost me nothing to show these less fortunate souls a little respect, and they have responded to it in a way that suits both of us; an unobtrusive but positive way.
Thus, it is through this missive that I wish to express, with heartfelt conviction, what a difference TREATING PEOPLE WELL really can make. That’s my story, and I am sticking to it.
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