In last week’s Wednesday Witness column, I described one of several homeless men and women who frequented Yale’s campus when I attended in the 1990s. I worked for the graduate School of Music all four years, and one of my first and primary duties was walking the entire campus, distributing or hanging concert flyers and posters at various buildings, businesses, and kiosks. I made the rounds at least once a week; as a result, I saw the local homeless frequently, and they saw me.
During my first year, one man, in particular, kept his eyes open for my brown leather ballcap and black poster portfolio. He was an older fellow, creased and grimy from years on the street, with lank and thinning gray hair, well-worn workman’s clothing, and the unmistakable aroma of body odor and booze. Whenever he saw me, his pale eyes would pull into focus, and his mouth would break into a smile that was equal parts crooked yellow teeth and no teeth at all. He would rise (if seated), reach out to shake my hand, and start the same conversation.
“Hullo! How did the football team do Saturday?”
I would greet him politely and share what I knew of the most recent game, whether I attended or not. He might comment on the game, the weather, or whatever else seemed pertinent—then, as our brief conversation wound down, his face would sag, and he would ask: “Say, do you have any change? Anything would help.”
I don’t remember how these interactions started, but they always ended the same. Mostly I said no (and, more often than not, it was the truth). Sometimes, feeling guilty, I gave him what spare change I had in my pocket.
I was generally not in a position to buy him lunch; I was never sure what I should do, and over time, I grew to dread seeing him. I wanted to be free of the problem because I could do nothing to solve it. Then one afternoon, as I was hustling across campus from class to work, I met him in a long walkway in between two buildings. I couldn’t turn aside, and no one else was around, so I couldn’t pretend to be distracted. He shuffled over, smiling.
“Hullo!” he said, extending his hand.
I kept my feet moving and held up my hand to stop him. “Listen,” I said, “I don’t have any money, and I’m running late. I’m sorry.”
As I moved past him, I heard the hurt in his voice: “I just wanted to know how the football team was doing.”
I didn’t look back, but I felt punched in the gut. I still do today as I write about it.
I was running late, but so what? Likely I had been talking to some disinterested girl who needed nothing from me (except maybe my notes from the last lecture). This man needed two minutes to feel human, and I cut him to the quick. I have no doubt that the conversation would have turned to money—but, in that moment, I knew what he needed most was to be seen and heard.
So the next time you see someone begging on the sidewalk, in the median, or along the highway off-ramp, take a moment. Even if you have nothing to give, even if you don’t roll down your car window, look at the person. See the humanity. If you accidentally make eye contact, acknowledge that you see them and, at least, whisper a prayer. It’s not much, but it matters—to both of you.