She's a bag lady if I ever saw one. Leaning against the phone booth with a look on her face that said either drugs, or dementia. Spaced out. Didn't acknowledge our presence. Just stood there w/ her 3 giant Duane Reade bags, spilling over with random stuff. A green stethoscope. Some dishes. Rags.
I was with my friends Eric + Abby + Yoon Jae. We were doing an outreach project for homeless people in New York. We'd already given away our sack lunches. All the nice jackets + sweaters were gone. I was getting so embarrassed lugging around these trash bags full of winter clothing to give away. Rich people in Times Square giving me looks.
We were on a side street, headed back to the subway, when we spotted her. + her bags.
Her name was Jackie. She was distraught, her frizzy gray hair sticking up, electrified-lookin. Dirt trapped under her fingernails. Exuding the smell of old, musty attic. Supposed to get my $700 welfare check today but now they're telling me next week, she says. What am I going to do for another week?
No panic in her voice. More like absolute dejection. Like she'd already given up on life.
Aww sorry 'bout that, we understand. We nod our heads, uh huh. My parents paid my way thru NYU. But yeah, I feel your pain. She doesn't look us in the face. But we ask her anyway: "Do you want to come to a health expo + get your health checked out? It's @ our church in Queens."
She doesn't know how to navigate in Queens. She lives in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. So we write her directions. But she doesn't even have $2 for the subway fare. Do we have any? she asks.
My first reaction is great, another drug addict trying to scam some money from us. Isn't that what the TV news specials talk about? Another con man making $500 a day from panhandling. Trying to get something 4 nothing, instead of getting a job.
But this lady obviously doesn't have anyone else to lean on. Except this phone booth. + these bags. + here I am, telling her to get herself + her bags over to Queens so we can help her. God helps those who help themselves right? Never know what's in that bag of yours, Jackie. A crack pipe? Maybe a syringe or 2?
+ then I remember. I have a metrocard in my wallet. + 2 dollar bills. It's all I have. + might be all it takes, if I really want her to come.
So I give it to her. She takes it + puts it in her wallet. "Would you mind if we prayed with you Jackie?" Why sure. Let's hold hands, I say. I try not to squirm or stare @ the dirt packed underneath her nails. We pray for Jackie there on the busy, noisy New York sidewalk. Buses + taxis honking. Pigeons walking around. + suddenly I hear her. She's crying.
I feel bad for her. Reflexively, I lean over + hug her. I've never really been this close to a homeless person before. Her head is resting on my shoulder. Our hair strands are touching. I feel kinda dirty. But I also feel strangely @ peace. I can feel her calming down too.
It's late. We're about to leave. She's so grateful for the subway card, the $2. Now I can sleep in a warm place tonight, she says excitedly. But if we never see each other again, how will she remember us? We check our trash bags, the ones I was so ashamed to be carrying. There's nothing her size except a fuzzy purple bathrobe. Looks like something Hugh Hefner would wear.
It's beautiful, she says. I have a friend who would love it. + puts it in her bag. We leave Jackie there on that street corner + she looks so happy. No longer leaning, but standing up straight. Smiling. I find, I can't stop smiling either.
Her name was Jackie. She was distraught, her frizzy gray hair sticking up, electrified-lookin. Dirt trapped under her fingernails. Exuding the smell of old, musty attic. Supposed to get my $700 welfare check today but now they're telling me next week, she says. What am I going to do for another week?
No panic in her voice. More like absolute dejection. Like she'd already given up on life.
Aww sorry 'bout that, we understand. We nod our heads, uh huh. My parents paid my way thru NYU. But yeah, I feel your pain. She doesn't look us in the face. But we ask her anyway: "Do you want to come to a health expo + get your health checked out? It's @ our church in Queens."
She doesn't know how to navigate in Queens. She lives in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. So we write her directions. But she doesn't even have $2 for the subway fare. Do we have any? she asks.
My first reaction is great, another drug addict trying to scam some money from us. Isn't that what the TV news specials talk about? Another con man making $500 a day from panhandling. Trying to get something 4 nothing, instead of getting a job.
But this lady obviously doesn't have anyone else to lean on. Except this phone booth. + these bags. + here I am, telling her to get herself + her bags over to Queens so we can help her. God helps those who help themselves right? Never know what's in that bag of yours, Jackie. A crack pipe? Maybe a syringe or 2?
+ then I remember. I have a metrocard in my wallet. + 2 dollar bills. It's all I have. + might be all it takes, if I really want her to come.
So I give it to her. She takes it + puts it in her wallet. "Would you mind if we prayed with you Jackie?" Why sure. Let's hold hands, I say. I try not to squirm or stare @ the dirt packed underneath her nails. We pray for Jackie there on the busy, noisy New York sidewalk. Buses + taxis honking. Pigeons walking around. + suddenly I hear her. She's crying.
I feel bad for her. Reflexively, I lean over + hug her. I've never really been this close to a homeless person before. Her head is resting on my shoulder. Our hair strands are touching. I feel kinda dirty. But I also feel strangely @ peace. I can feel her calming down too.
It's late. We're about to leave. She's so grateful for the subway card, the $2. Now I can sleep in a warm place tonight, she says excitedly. But if we never see each other again, how will she remember us? We check our trash bags, the ones I was so ashamed to be carrying. There's nothing her size except a fuzzy purple bathrobe. Looks like something Hugh Hefner would wear.
It's beautiful, she says. I have a friend who would love it. + puts it in her bag. We leave Jackie there on that street corner + she looks so happy. No longer leaning, but standing up straight. Smiling. I find, I can't stop smiling either.
There is more hunger in this world for love and appreciation than for bread.
-Mother Theresa
"And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones...[he] will certainly not lose his reward." (Matthew 10:42)
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Happiness comes from serving others.
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