Giving Money to Beggars and Homeless People

Whenever a group of people have a discussion about giving money (whether tax dollars or charity) to the "down-and-out" it seems inevitable that the conversation will eventually get around to whether or not people will give money to homeless people or "beggars" on the street.

It may just be the circles in which I travel, but from what I've seen the vast majority of people say they would not give cash to a beggar, primarily because they "don't want the person using it to buy cigarettes, alcohol, or drugs". That seems reasonable enough. After all, people who would be happy to buy lunch for a beggar don't necessarily want to spend their money on "booze" for him. Even understanding that kind of thinking, as well as generally sharing it myself, I do, in some ways, find something a little offputting, however, about the idea that a person will consider giving money to another only if he knows that other person will spend it the way he expects him to. I don't know.. There's that part of me that, in spite of understanding and generally sharing the reasonable thinking that food is the most important, and only healthy, thing on which to spend money intended to feed a hungry person; there's also the part of me that thinks, "Here's this individual who is in such desperate need of cash. Never mind trying to involve yourself in his business, or 'give him incentive to get help'. Just either give him your few dollars or don't, but at least give him that his poverty is not a license for others to tell him how he should spend what few dollars he manages to come by."

Still, that part of me that thinks people should either give or not give but not attach strings to what they give exists alongside the part of me that understands the thinking of what is apparently the majority of other people.

Suppose, though, the beggar on the street has been living out in the cold for so long, separated from (for example) the children he loves for no reason other than than a lousy court system, hasn't been able to get to see his ailing and dying father because of money and transportation; and has reached a point in his grief and anger (with no one and nothing on whom to take out that anger in an acceptable way); and has reached a point where the only thing that keeps him from finding the anger and grief so unbearable that he'll kill himself (and he doesn't want to do that, because he's got that ailing father and those kids and keeps thinking things might get better if he can just get through yet one more unbearable moment and not kill himself). And suppose that beggar knows that a drink or some drug may "take the edge" of the acute and unbearable pain, just so he can get through the moment and live to try, hope, and struggle for his sanity for another day....

Some people's answer would be that he shouldn't have allowed himself to take that first drink or drug in the first place. (Maybe he thought he could keep it from being a problem and turned out to be wrong. Maybe, when faced with suicide or risking addiction, he went with the least of the two evils. ) Some people would say that relying on the drink or drugs, and giving him money, only fuels the addiction; and addiction, of course, is "bad" and dangerous and destructive.

Maybe that beggar is thinking that the drink or drugs are keeping him alive and sane right now, and he'll address the issue of his addiction once something has gotten better for him and he's more in a position to better be able to fight it and conquer it.

I'm not much of a user of alcohol. I drink about three glasses of wine a year. One day I'm going to get myself a Bloody Mary because I love them, and just keep forgetting to get one when I go out for dinner. (The last time I had a Bloody Mary I ordered it without the vodka because I was expecting my daughter, who's now 26.) I think you get the idea about me and alcoholic beverages. I've never used drugs in my life. (I keep a bottle of aspirin in my medicine chest, and use it when have to. That's it.) Having had no choice but to go through a court system that isn't about the truth, justice, fairness, or even rights; I do, unfortunately, know what it's like to have my children away from me and wondering when the court will get it right, correct the mistake it made, and let them live with the parent with whom they were most bonded and comfortable at the time. I know what it's like to have one's life and world turned to ruins, and to have so much anger and grief that one stashes it all in the back of their mind just to be able to get through the day. THEN, some other things happens and adds to it all, and like Pandora's box, all those monstrous thoughts and feelings come flying out and making a person feel as if he can't bear it for another minute. I didn't happen to see suicide as option because a) I wasn't going to do that to my kids, but b) I wasn't going to let people who were angry at me or who wanted to see me destroyed win. I wasn't living out on the streets, though, and I wasn't hungry. In fact, there were a lot of ways I was so much more fortunate than a lot of other people are.

However, I'd learned what a couple of cigarettes can do when a person is under unbearable circumstances, and that's what got me through some of the most unbearable moments when all this was going on.

It's probably important that I make it very clear that I don't using unhealthy and/or dangerous substances as a way of dealing with even the most serious of crises in life, or in mental health. The real point here is that substance abuse problems aren't necessarily always the cause of other problems in a person's life. Sometimes they're the result of them. Is use of one or more of these substances the acceptable and healthy way to deal with such an extreme crisis? Of course not - not in an ideal world, and not even in the world as we all know think we know it. There are times, though, when the rules and practices of even that far-from-ideal world that so many people think they know are as unrealistic a fantasy as that ideal world we all know doesn't exist.

There aren't a lot of beggars in the street where I live and work, but if I ever run into one I'll give him/her money and think, "I hope you get yourself a dollar cheeseburger or a doughnut - whatever fills you and gives you a little energy, and I hope you can get any cigarettes or alcohol that will get you through your next moment so that you can live to - maybe, just maybe - once again see more humane days. (As for drugs, since they aren't even anything that have ever been in my life, and since I find them far more frightening than the other two things, I guess I'd sort of hope drugs weren't the beggar's survival method of choice; but it wouldn't be my business if they were.

It wouldn't be my role to try to make sure the beggar only "eats healthy food" or only does what I approve of. I'd see my role as an understanding person who wasn't out to attach strings to the little money I could give him. Sure, I'd be contributing to his addiction(s), but I like to think I'd also be contributing to his sanity and and possibly survival (at least for the time-being). His substance abuse problem would be his, but his battle with it wouldn't be won if he had a psychotic breakdown or killed himself in a moment of being overwhelmed. Neither would it be won if he got to the point where he tried to escape by giving up and curling up and went to sleep in the cold streets, only to freeze to death.

Someone I Once Knew - A Story

Years ago, when my first son was little, there was a boy in our area who was a few years older than my son and would come by and talk to my son on the front lawn every once in a while. He seemed like a nice enough kid, although I got the feeling he might be a kid who struggled in school. He been one of two brothers, but his older brother was killed. So, when he'd stop by and talk with my son on the lawn, that was after he'd become the only living child of grieving parents.
He was coming around from the time he was in his late adolescence and then earliest teen years.
He seemed to enjoy talking not just with my little son, but with me. He kind of came across like a "lost soul" in a lot of ways. He wasn't a kid anyone ever saw with other kids. He'd ride around on his bike a lot, but I didn't know much about him, other than he was friendly and liked to talk.

In fact, even after he'd turned into an older teen and, later, a young man in his early twenties, he'd always chat a little when I met him somewhere in town. Once he came by my house and asked me if I might take one of several kittens that needed a home. He'd somehow come by knowing of the homeless kittens other than their being the offspring of a cat that was his own.

By the time he was in his early twenties he'd already been a teen who had gotten himself in trouble with substance abuse. In fact, substance abuse wasn't just his problem. By the time (and whether it was the drug use or not that caused this, I don't know) he'd been getting some mental-health help.

To me, it seemed understandable enough that this little boy who seemed to struggle in school, and who had lost an older brother at so young an age, might dabble in drugs once he'd gotten to the age where a whole lot of kids do the very same thing anyway. His two parents weren't people I knew well, but they'd always been very nice to me. They definitely seemed like sad people in spite of their cheerful and friendly demeanors. I suppose that losing one teen son (to an accident) and having one's only remaining child struggle in school and end up getting in too deep when it comes to drugs had taken their toll. This is pure speculation because nobody ever told me this, but I wouldn't be surprised if the grief stricken parents hadn't been able to be the right kind of support for their little boy after their elder son was killed, and at a time in his life when he most needed extra support. Maybe, too, their younger son knew how grief-stricken they were and didn't want to expect more attention or help from them. Or, there's even the chance that they (and others in the extended family) were so "wrapped up" in the loss that they couldn't/didn't know how desperately a child with so many things "against him" (in terms of self-esteem, happiness, etc.) needed far more than they were able to give him. It's really not for me to guess about any of the circumstances/issues that may have contributed to his problems. All I know is that he was young when they started, and that a good part of the time such problems don't start unless there are contributing factors that can make the difference between a kid who gets in over his head and one who finds a way to make sure he doesn't.

So, from the time when he was in, maybe, his mid-teens to early-twenties, I knew him as a young man who'd gotten himself "into problems" but who had the support of his parents, worked two jobs at two different gas stations, and seemed to (maybe) be on his way to getting a little more back on his feet.

He couldn't drive, so one parent or another would drive him to work. I'd meet his mother at the grocery store and she'd talk about coming in to get one thing or another that her son liked. As time went on, there was the occasional setback for her son, but then he'd seem to be doing better again later. To some point it had gotten so that he'd been in and out of mental-health facilities and/or rehabs more than once. By this time, my son had been grown up for quite awhile. The young man had gotten into his late twenties and moved away from his parents' home. I didn't see him for several years.

A few (several, I guess, by now) years ago I met his father, who told me that his mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease. All I could think about was whether his mother had gotten to see her son have his life a little more in order before Alzhiemer's Disease took away her memory. She's quite a bit older than I am, so she's had white hair since I've known her.

About a year after her husband told me that, I saw the two of them at the grocery store. The husband was guiding his, by then, feeble-looking wife by the hand. In such a short time she'd gone from being an active, vibrant, car-driving, lady with a neat and attractive style to her short, white, hair to such a frail little soul with her usual neat, clean, and casual clothing but scraggly enough hair that she looked like someone else somehow. I wondered if she'd ever gotten to see her boy be OK and happy.

A couple of years ago I had to go to a nearby city. It's a city I don't usually go to unless I have to. There are nicer ones around, and they're where I go if/when I have a choice. In any case, I was in the downtown area and decided to get a cup of coffee after running my errand. I found a bench by the coffee shop and sat to have the coffee before heading home. It was the middle of a beautiful afternoon. There was an older man who sat beside me and started talking. I'd never seen him before, and I didn't really mind his talking. It was the middle of the afternoon and the middle of the downtown area. Someone else (and I, too, I suppose) would see this guy as a "derelict type". (There's something about me that tends to attract children, elderly people, cats, dogs, and "derelect types". I don't know... I guess I'm approachable or safe-seeming. )

In any case, I didn't mind the older man's talking. I could have left if I'd wanted to, but I kind of thought he wouldn't stay too long. It wasn't long before a more familiar person, wearing an odd hat, came to my rescue. It was the boy from my town, who was by then in his mid-thirties. I wasn't too happy that he told the older man to leave me alone, and then he said, "Is he bothering you?" The man left, and I didn't appreciate this seemingly harmless man's being treated with the hint of aggression and complete lack of respect that my "local friend" had demonstrated.

After the man left my "friend" sat down and began to talk. The conversation was basic "long-time-no-see" chat, but it was clear to me that the young man was not OK. He was either on something or had developed serious mental issues. He was as friendly to me (friendlier actually) as he'd always been. If nothing else, this was an individual who, although often sullen in his "bad phases", had always acted as if he liked me as a "good friend to talk to" when he was more himself.

During the conversation I asked him how his mother was. His friendly tone turned angry (not at me, but "about" his mother), and he said, "I don't know. I haven't seen her. She could be dead by now." I dropped it and took the conversation in a different direction. Things were all pleasant enough again. After awhile he asked me if I had "just a dollar". He apologized profusely for "even asking". I told him I didn't care and would give him the dollar, but I had to go into the store to get cash because I don't generally carry much cash with me and had spent most of the cash I had.

At the time I didn't have all kinds of extra money to be giving to anyone; besides, I knew he was someone who used drugs and alcohol and wasn't about to give him more than the reasonable-enough dollar for which he'd asked. All I could think of was his mother and father, and if that were my son I wouldn't have wanted anyone giving him cash he could use to buy drugs. When I said I'd be glad to give him the dollar I also said that I'd like to be able to give him more, but he knew that I didn't "have a lot of money" and just couldn't. He knew enough about my own history that he knew my divorce had, shall we say, put me in a different lifestyle than the one he'd originally known me to have when he was younger.

He said how much he appreciated just the dollar, and he said, "I haven't really eaten." Not really knowing whether I could be believe what he said or not, I went into the store and picked up a couple of snacks for him (a snack bar, crackers, a candy bar) and got singles back when I did.
He seemed to appreciate the snacks and ate them. Then he said, "Will you be here for another five minutes? I need to go do something, but I'll be back." At that point, I figured that staying another few minutes wouldn't make much difference, so I returned to what coffee I had left; and he took off in a flash, running and weaving through the downtown traffic. Basically, he looked like a lunatic who was going to get himself killed. He sang at the top of his lungs and from under the peculiar hat as he dashed and weaved and a couple of cars honked horns.

I didn't know if he needed a men's room or a drink of water or "what", but I figured I'd wait another few minutes before leaving. It didn't matter. I'd seen enough of how far this young man, who had so often shown signs of getting on his feet, had been pulled away from his former self and life and, instead, pulled into street life and mental-health and/or substance abuse problems so much more serious than they'd ever been. I just kept thinking of his parents (particularly his mother) and how I'd feel if that were my child. I actually considered the idea that maybe, after what had happened with her two boys, his mother may be better off not to have to be aware of all of it any longer. Then I thought of his father, a now elderly man with an Alzheimer's stricken wife and a son in the downtown traffic, singing at the top of his lungs and wearing a peculiar hat.

Naturally, my thoughts also turned to the age of the man I'd known since childhood; and I couldn't help but believe that if he'd not straightened his life out by that age, it was unlikely things would get very much better (if they got better at all).

It wasn't long before my "friend" returned as quickly as he said he would, and he returned in the same way he'd left - dashing and weaving through the city traffic and singing at the top of his lungs from under the hat.

He plopped down next to me on the rickety bench again, and I wasn't sure why, exactly, he'd asked me to wait for him to get back. He chatted a little more, thanked me again for the dollar and claimed that he'd bought a "joint" with it. Middle-aged and straight mother that I was, I wasn't sure if I should believe him because I wasn't under the impression "joints" could be gotten for such a little bit of money. Then again, knowing how small they are from having seen them in my younger days, I figured there was a good chance he was telling the truth. I didn't care one way or another. It actually occurred to me that he may have run into the doughnut shop across the street and gotten a doughnut, not wanting to let me know that my well intentioned snacks hadn't been enough to fill him. I knew he'd always been a thoughtful "kid". I knew he liked me. I knew, too, that he was disgusted at a court system that had created problems in my life when he thought I was someone who was "too nice to have that 's---' happen" (as he'd put it).

Also, I knew he saw me as a buddy, so - who knows? - maybe he'd gotten the doughnut that I'd wondered about, or maybe he had, in fact, gotten what he said he had. Maybe he'd thought saying he got a "joint" would be something I'd see as "acceptable", while saying he'd gotten a doughnut might highlight the fact that what I'd given him had been so inadequate for someone who "hadn't really eaten". I don't know... I allowed myself to imagine these possibilities; because when all was said and done, I guess I'd kind of hoped he'd wanted the dollar to use as bus fare or else, maybe, buy himself a fruit juice on that hot, sunny, afternoon. Either way, a "joint" wasn't going to help him or harm him much at that point.

A measly dollar doesn't buy much one way or another, and I wondered where any money he did get was coming from, and what he may have to do for it. I assumed there was the chance he was getting some kind of assistance from a government program (maybe the SSI program? maybe food stamps that he was selling for cash?). I wondered if, even if he'd been on a goverment program, he'd found himself off it; because in our conversation he'd already talked about "problems" he'd had with the people who ran a shelter in the area. I thought of the little boy who used to stop by my front yard and walkway to chat, about his mother, about his father, and about each of my own three children; and I told myself that "problems" with the "shelter people" didn't necessarily mean problems with the people associated with government agencies/programs.

I didn't really believe "the doughnut thing" I'd imagined, and I wasn't really oblivious to the reality that the person with "issues" that my "friend" had usually don't just run into "problems" with one group of people like those running the shelter. They tend to run into problems with everyone with whom they have any dealings or relationships. In fact, people like my "friend" tend to have the most problems with the people who most want to help them and who are most able to at least try.

Not too long after my "friend" had returned to the bench I told him I had to get back home. We said our friendly good-byes. He said his "thank you's" again. I headed up the sidewalk, and dashed back out into the downtown street, singing at the top of lungs from under the peculiar hat.

As I walked, I thought about what I might or might not say to his father should I meet him again. I wondered if he'd want to know that I'd seen his son and that he was at least alive, or if he'd rather not want to know that I'd seen his son and seen how he was spending his sunny afternoons. I decided not to ask (as I'd always done) how his son was if I met him. The fact was I knew how his son was. His wife was someone else about whom I would not ask. The fact was I had a pretty good idea how his wife must be.

The father and I have meet three times since that sunny afternoon. The first two times we chatted about "nothing" for the brief time we were together. The third time the elderly and tired-seeming man just said a friendly, "hi" and kept going.

I've since learned that the mother of this young man passed away not long ago. Her obituary mentioned only her husband among those who survived her. Whether or not her son's name was intentionally left off because of alienation from his parents or not, I don't know. I've imagined that, and even imagined how his mother's passing may actually have reunited him with his father and eventually led to his once again beginning to get his life back in order. Well, I imagine that and "the doughnut thing".

I don't know why I allow myself to imagine this kind of stuff, even if for only fleeting moments. It's just, I guess, the kind of thing a lot of us tend to do when we know there's nothing else whatsoever that we can do.