Snarky Behavior

I live pretty far uptown in New York — Morningside Heights — in a neighborhood that is right on the transitional boundary between the upscale University and the downscale Harlem area demarcated by 125th St.

The area is safe enough, and constantly patrolled by NYPD and Columbia security. But every once in awhile I’ll be reminded that my neighborhood wasn’t always so “nice.”

The other night while walking home from school and picking up a sandwich at USA #1! Deli, I was approached by a drunk Black man, maybe 27 years old, who looked a little worse for the wear. His sweatshirt was dirty and tattered, and its stretched neck revealed just an A-frame shirt underneath.

He asked me if I could buy him some food, looking at the sandwich I was carrying. Consistent with my “Giving Spare Change to the Homeless” policy, I told him I’d like to him help, but couldn’t afford it.

But he wasn’t deterred. It was raining, and I was fumbling for my umbrella. He challenged me.

“That’s what everyone says, man. Of course you can afford it. I’m not asking for much. Just a can of Ravioli. I’m not asking for money. I’m not like those other guys out here. You can tell I’ve been drinking, sure. But I drink to stay warm, man. Look man, I’m shaking. I’m shaking man.” He proceeded to take of his jacket and shirt, revealing a trembling chest underneath.

It was an impulsive act, but it got me to look at him. It got me to consider him as a person and not an inconvenience on my way home. I noticed that one of his eyes was practically missing. That he had dark tattoos on a skinny but chiseled frame, the telltale physique of someone who had spent significant time in prison. I noticed that he was legitimately shaking, that his face was in pain, that he was desperately hanging on to shreds of dignity even in this demonstratively humiliating act.

I told him that I’d like to help. That it shamed me to see people living on the streets. But I told him that I couldn’t afford to help every person I ran across. That there were just too many. That I couldn’t differentiate between the people who were scamming me and the people who were legitimately desperate. That there were women and children in his situation that were less forward that I’d like to help before him. I told him there were places in the city that would feed him and house him for the night and help him get his life straight.

He showed me some sort of papers (this seems to happen a lot) proving that he was in the process of looking for a job. He told me that the YMCA wasn’t a safe place, that the outreach centers made him give up his cell phone and the drugs he was slanging, and he couldn’t make a living that way. He told me that he scared people, that he had lost his eye breaking up a fight, but everyone who saw him assumed he was a thug and an ex-con.

He told me that his mother had died five years ago. That he didn’t feel like his life had meaning. That he had lost his sense of purpose. That he had no reason to believe tomorrow would be any better. That all of the dumb things he had done as a youth had led him nowhere. That he was ready to “join his mother.”

…

What do you say to that? What do you say to someone, who in the span of five minute conversation has turned from some abstract obstacle into the most intense, intimately connected person you’ve interacted with in months? What do you say to someone you don’t know who’s lost all hope? Without relying on the comforting platitudes and overtures of religion, of finding solace in “God’s love,” how do you assure a stranger that he exists and that his existence is meaningful?

The experience really shook me. I found myself drawing on words without knowing where the advice came from. That hope is all we have. That we must find or create the meaning in our lives for ourselves… it’s not going to be given to us or assigned from above That every ascent from the bottom starts with a small step up, that it was hard but that it was rewarding. That everyone has trouble finding meaning in their lives, that everyone has moments where they struggle to get out of bed and face the life that the path of their existence has led them to. That his mother would rather see him struggle and fail then give up altogether.

He listened, but he wasn’t convinced. He didn’t want my advice, he wanted my ear. He wanted someone to listen. And I heard him. But I wish I could have helped him, sustain him… at least something more than the Chef Boyerdee.