I was a fan of the Oakland A’s baseball team back in the days when they were worthy of having fans [to be fair, I haven't followed them for years], in the late 80′s and early 90′s when guys like thridbaseman Carney Lansford and outfielder Jose Canseco made you want to run back to Oakland Coliseum every week for more great baseball. My then boyfriend and now husband and I would join friends and take the BART train up to Oakland for a day of fun in the sun, great baseball, and ballpark food. I can still smell that undeniable ballpark smell of popcorn, polishdogs, and cheap beer mixed in with the smell of sunscreen. Always in the mood to celebrate another A’s win, we would then head into San Francisco to our favorite Irish pub. I personally looked forward to my favorite drink, the Blue Whale. I am not even sure what was in it other than Blue Curacao, but that didn’t matter. It came served with a plastic blue whale perched on the rim of the glass and I was always looking forward to adding to my dashboard collection. It was on one such visit to the city that I met “her.”
I never got her name, but she had an impact on my life. We met as my party and I were walking down the street toward the pub. She had suddenly appeared in front blocking me from going any further and separating me from my friends. She had looked me straight in the face with large, round, imploring eyes and asked for money to feed her kids that she referenced with a quick nod to the side. Looking over, I saw three small children probably between the ages of three and eight all looking back at me with the same imploring eyes. They sat huddled together in the shadows of the neon lights against a door. My heart immediately went out to this woman and I dug into my purse and pulled out a five dollar bill and gave it to her without a second thought. She thanked me and I caught up with my friends and ordered my Blue Whale.
Work combined with some family vacation time brought me back to the city I had since moved so far away from, about ten years later now in my early thirties and this time with my own three kids and a husband in tow. A different street in the same city introduced me to a new friend, but he had a name Milton. Since we had taken up residence at the San Francisco Hilton hotel for our six-day stay, Milton became affectionately named by my children, “Milton from the Hilton.” Everyday as my children and I waited for my husband to return with the car from the parking garage across the street from the hotel [a process that took 20 minutes] we had ample time to get to chat with Milton as he tried to coax money from the hotel patrons pockets. We learned [because he had many stories to tell and freely told them without being asked] that Milton had found his way to San Fransisco from Los Angeles. He was successfully hiding from the police that were after him for some undisclosed reason. One day, my friend Dan was standing with us as he waited for his car to be brought to him. Milton never having seen my husband with the children and I, assumed Dan was my husband and asked him for some money. Dan gave him a one dollar bill. Milton thanked him looked down at my youngest child who was just five at the time, and started to walk down the street. He had only gotten a couple of yards from us when he turned on his heel and walked back over to us. Getting down on one knee so that he could get eye to eye with my son Milton said this to him, “You take this dollar and you spend it wisely, you hear me? You don’t use it to by candy or other junk. You save it so you don’t end up like Milton, you hear me?” My astonished wide-eyed five-year old nodded back in agreement. A day later as we checked out of the hotel and got into our car, my son waved goodbye to Milton who sat swinging his legs in one of the broad window ledges of the hotel. He waved back with a great smile across his weathered face. My son now almost 12 years old, still has Dan’s dollar bill that Milton gave him and he still on occasion will say a prayer for him.
Two weekends ago my daughter and I found ourselves out on the town in another great west coast city Portland, Oregon. Three of my girlfriends where up visiting and we decided to celebrate one of their birthdays a bit early in the city. The restaurant we had our heart set on had much too long of a wait so we gathered around the iPhone out in the evening drizzle to try to find another place for our celebration. As we stood there, we where approached by a man with a long beard, probably in his late 40′s or early 50′s holding a piece of paper covered in plastic. His story was that he was trying to get into a workprogram and needed money to get there. I found myself wanting to know more about this man. What circumstances brought him to were he was today? Were was he living right now? He answered all of my questions as my friends waited patiently in the rain, no doubt wondering why I took such an interest in this man. He told me the cross streets of the bridge he was living under, said it was almost like camping and camping wasn’t so bad after all he said. He had a divorce, sold the tools that he used to earn a living, and had spent some time in jail because of some bad decisions he had made. He also said that a lot of people were only a paycheck or two away from standing right were he was. At that tears came to the brim of my eyes, of course he couldn’t know that my family was one of those families that he spoke of. Of course we have something that obviously he doesn’t have, family that would never allow that to happen to us. Taking a five out of my wallet, I handed it to him making him promise me would not waste it. He promised, and we went our separate ways.
I have had many more encounters with homeless people in my life as I am sure you have, but these three encounters over three very different decades in my life were the ones that profoundly affected me. The first lady from San Francisco back when I was in my early 20′s made me cynical. The rest of the story from that night was that when I came out of the pub that night, I was grabbed on the arm by the same woman. Those once imploring eyes now glazed over, bitter foul alcohol breath being blown in my face as she again asked for money. This time no kids in sight. I felt taken advantage of. My heart so wanted to believe that she was asking out of true need and an ignorant belief from me that I would actually be helping her. What would five dollars do to change her life? To be fair, at that point in my life I was more anxious to through money I didn’t think twice about spending at her than to think about her past what it did for me. In my 20 something mind, it was a good night. I had helped a poor homeless woman and had my drink, both made me feel good to some degree.
A decade later I was still somewhat cynical towards the plight of the homeless, but ready to listen and learn when we met Milton. I was able to look past his circumstance and look at the man. Now being 40 and my own circumstances at the moment gave me an entirely new outlook and even hunger to understand the man I met just weeks ago in Portland.
This is not ment to be an essay on “the plight of the homeless in major west coast cities,” or a social commentary on homelessness, and I am by no means telling you how you should respond to them. It is just introspection on looking at age and how our experiences affect the filter through which we view life and respond to it. I think the conclusion I come to for myself is that because I have been given much grace in my life, I am able to give more of it to others. Because people have listened to my story, I want to hear theirs. Most of all, I don’t want to miss or take for granted one single experience, person, or opportunity that I can learn from by being too cynical, in a hurry, or self focused. Wonder what the 50′s will bring?
What about you? How have your views, the way you react to life changed over the years that you have lived so far?
Looking forward to meeting the next Milton,
Girl40
