Oh, Think Twice
January 14, 2009 · Print This Article
There’s a man… living in a cardboard box… down by the White House.
I want to joke. It’s what I do. You must understand: it is genetic. I had absolutely no say in the matter. Because, yes, you see, I have inherited the Loud Laugher/Loud Talker gene from my mother’s side of the family, which makes for good times in cubicle-land, let me tell you. Especially when I get phone calls. Or an especially funny email. I get shushed. I do! And when I break my butt walking down icy stairs , I laugh (after I pass out). When I pass out (again) while locked in the ER restroom, resulting in a twisted ankle and a bruised up face, I laugh. When my husband hits me in the head with a racquetball going mach 7, after I cry like a baby and cuss him to bits, I laugh. When I joke about someone hurting my feelings or breaking my heart, I laugh. I can’t help how I am.
But I can’t find the funny in this.
I work in DC. A block away from the White House. (And that’s all the details you’ll ever get out of me. Because it’s none of your business where I work, THAT’S why. STALKER.) And when I remember to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air, I see him. During the bustle of the midday lunch crowd, there he is, right there on the sidewalk, fast asleep on a ratty old bed of blankets and newspapers, wearing several layers of clothing, his only possessions (as far as I can tell) an old metal shopping cart, a coffee cup filled with change and folded-up dollar bills, and a plastic drugstore bag filled with well-worn paperback books and assorted paraphernalia that is usually resting against the abandoned storefront window. The first time I saw him, I thought, Why doesn’t anyone steal his money? Or his bag? He’s SO out. Because I am a horrible person and that was the first thing that popped into my head. Theft. Yes, my parents are so proud. But in thinking that thought, I realized that no one stole his stuff… because they didn’t see it.
He wasn’t even there.
She calls out to the man on the street
“Sir, can you help me?
It’s cold and I’ve nowhere to sleep,
Is there somewhere you can tell me?”
And now it’s winter, and it’s bitter cold, and today I actually remembered to get my hyper-focused self out of my cubicle and into the fresh air. And I discovered that where the ratty old bed of blankets and newspaper used to be is a cardboard hut, built in a sort of half-hexagon shape and propped pretty solidly up against the abandoned storefront window. It’s a pretty intricate structure, with a swinging door (blocked by the shopping cart when I walked by). The coffee cup was there, filled with the usual change and folded-up dollar bills. And this time I thought, How did he build that? Did people stop and watch? Did anyone help him? The authorities have to know he’s here. Are they going to make him tear it down? Good LORD, he is LITERALLY living in a cardboard box! People don’t live in cardboard boxes. You can’t LIVE in a cardboard box. And I thought all this as I pulled my coat more tightly around me and pulled on my mittens to help ward off the icy wind blowing by.
But y’all? There’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House.
I have a confession: If he were awake when the crowds bustle by, perhaps sitting on his blankets reading, or talking to himself, or simply staring into space, I probably wouldn’t be able to recall such vivid details of the living space he has staked out as his own. I couldn’t. Because I know in my heart that I would probably look away. Like I do when the strange, shouty man at the corner of the street by the Metro entrance waves his coffee cup full of change at me as I rush to get to the train on time. Because I never have cash, and even if I did, I wouldn’t know what to do with it. Is it like a Ding Dong Ditch? Drop in a dollar, make no eye contact, and hurry by? What happens then? Will I be obligated to drop money into his cup every time I pass him? Will he expect it? I don’t know! I don’t!
Today, from across the street, I watched covertly as others hurried by him. Some dropped change and dollars into his cup, thus earning his strange, shouty thanks. Some smiled in his direction as they passed, flashing him a “Sorry, buddy, not today” type of gesture. But mostly? People walked on by, some even quickening their step or swerving as far from him as possible as they passed.
He walks on, doesn’t look back
He pretends he can’t hear her
Starts to whistle as he crosses the street
Seems embarrassed to be there
Yes, the economy sucks. Yes, people are losing their jobs. Yes, we need a change. Yes, we need hope. So I can’t help but be bewildered by this sense of complacency regarding homelessness I perceive in our nation’s capital, this abandonment of the needy, people who have the time and the wherewithal to build cardboard huts on the streets, right in front of us, right outside buildings where thousands of people work, only a block away from the home of the most influential person in the entire country, and yet… there they are? Are we, as a whole, complacent? ARE we? I don’t know! I don’t! I’m not judging. I’m ASKING.
Because there’s a man living in a cardboard box down by the White House. And I can’t find the funny in that. I just… can’t.
Oh think twice, it’s another day for
You and me in paradise
Oh think twice, it’s just another day for you,
You and me in paradise
Just think about it.
Great post and this is something I think about all the time.
And if you do ever pass one of these guys by and happen to have some spare change or bills you can give it to them and they’ll say thank you and that will be it. They won’t expect it everytime. I’m pretty sure most of the homeless have come to expect next to nothing from anyone. (Obviously there are exceptions.)
Okay, that’s it.
*steely resolve*
I will do it, Bente. Tomorrow I will do it.
Shouty man, sleeping man… You use your adjectives to distance yourself from the people. Don’t ask for strategies for getting past level three on the avoid the homeless game. Nobody wants you to make a joke about them. It’s entirely up to you how you deal with what you’ve encountered. Might I suggest treating them like human beings, looking them in the eye and speaking to them? They are not machines programmed to accept only money and ignore all else. They’re people. Say hello. Don’t be afraid.
Great post Cat, odd to see you deviate from the snarkiness so much but it was thoroughly impressive, enough said.
You suck Cat. Making me think about homeless people and what not.
Here are some lyrics form G -Love and Jack Johnson from the song Rodeo Clowns.
Lights out shut down
Late night wet ground
You walk by, look at him but he can’t look at you yah
You might feel pity but he only feels the ground because
You understand moods
But he only knows let down
By the corner there’s another one
Reaching out a hand
Coming from a broken man
Well, you try to live
But he’s done trying
Not dead but definitely dying
If you want to be charitable. Dont give them money. Buy a wawa gift card or a Mc Donalds gift cert and give them that. I am not saying that because “they will buy booze with your money”. You know becasue hey..if they buy booze good for them. I say the gift card and certs because after dealing with a homeless dude panhandler guy for a few years I aksed him and he said money is good but a man wastes money on the street. He does not waste food or drink. Oh I could go on and on…I also knew a lot of fake homeless too who were just out there to make a buck.
Thanks, y’all. All great comments, all great suggestions. I know people care on an individual basis, and you reaffirm that for me. And, Jason, every so often I DO stray from the snark. Perhaps I will create a category for that, so as not to shock…
Don’t worry. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough. (Booyah! Name THAT quote.)
Mr Bennet, P&P!
No matter what, it’s a difficult situation. During my 2nd pregnancy I was driving to get my weekly blood test (gestational diabetes) at 6AM, and drove by a homeless woman. She was sitting on a park bench on this two-block stretch that is a very folksy yet trendy shopping area. I never saw her there again.
Fast forward 5 years to this past Xmas, when I volunteered the family and I to ring Salvation Army bells at the corner down the street from that park bench. As my two young ‘uns were getting their long underwear and snowpants on, my oldest asked why we were doing this anyway. What did it matter? And I said that we were ringing bells because that woman didn’t have anywhere to go at 6AM on a cold November morning. And I thought, “Really? Aren’t we just doing this to ease my conscience?” But then I thought that the bell-ringing was better than nothing, and that we had to start somewhere. I was just sad that we only started this past Xmas.
Anyway. Thanks, Cat. You have a way with words.
[...] We have a house, and, as another blogger pointed out, it isn’t a cardboard box. [...]
Sent a little bloggy love your way, since I so liked this post and you reminded me how fortunate I truly am. I already shared my other ideas on how to help via Facebook (clean blanket/coat, meals, etc…), and it sounds like you have a plan for what you want to do. Good luck and let us know if you make it over to meet him.
I did it! I stopped and smiled at the strange, shouty man on the corner (sorry, Jake, but he IS strange and shouty, and that is how I shall describe him), and I put something in his outstretched cup (again, none o’ your business). He said (or, rather, shouted), “Yeah! Yeah! That’s right! Ha ha! Thank you! Thank you! That’s what I’m talking about!” And I could tell he totally meant it.
It was kind of awesome.
[...] did it! I stopped and smiled at the strange, shouty man on the corner (sorry, Jake, but he IS both strange and shouty, and that is how I shall describe him), and I put something in [...]
I’m like a magnet for beggers…you know that. Anyhow, I also rarely carry any cash on me because it burns a hole in my pocket… But I had a guy approach me at a gas station asking for money for food. I told him I had no cash, but that I had a jar of peanut butter and a box of crackers in my car. (I always have lots of snack in my car in case I get hungry) Anyhow, he said, “Forget it” and started to walk away. I yelled over to him, “Did you know you could live off peanut butter alone?” I then extolled the virtures of peanut butter and how some elderly people live for years eating just a tablespoon of peanut butter a day! He looked at me real strange and then shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay, I’ll take the peanut butter and crackers.”