The Tenderloin knows the struggling merchants, harbors the drug deals and feels the pain of the drunk who lacks a way or a will to survive. The Tenderloin shoulders the despair of the youth shot down by the new knowledge that a virus hides in the blood, and understands the fear that expensive drugs affordable on the floors above may be unavailable to save a life on the streets below. The Tenderloin understands that sex can be just a job and that it’s the hunger from the outside, and the loneliness inside, that needs to be fed. The Tenderloin understands that though they might hide in the shadows behind the limousines arriving in the Theatres, or under the sparkle of the financial skyline, each person here thinks of this, San Francisco, as their own city and their home.
Removed from the reality of its streets, you’ll often hear people talk about avoiding the Tenderloin, saying they don’t like the neighborhood, or advocating mass demolition and removal. Even from within the district, people look down and hope that things will get better or go away.
The drunks on the corner; the old man in a wheelchair selling drugs; the undocumented immigrants who work themselves into a hidden economy and new life; the students who live here because they can’t afford to live anywhere else; and the old people who have stayed because it is their home: the streets are theirs.
–Eric Miller, New Colonist
I’m still learning my way around San Francisco. The other evening I needed to attend a panel discussion on homelessness that was held at the YMCA in the Tenderloin. I rode the Muni with my coworkers, and we walked the three blocks from Civic Center Station together. When I left after 8 p.m. alone, I re-traced my steps. I was not wearing flat shoes, did not know exactly where I needed to go, and thus felt a little vulnerable. I made my way past ragged people sitting on the sidewalk, down the hill past the Hastings College of Law. As I approached the station, I saw a woman sitting in a wheelchair, without legs, holding a plastic cup.
In the past I typically have not given money to pandhandlers. Many years ago when I was a poor working student, I literally didn’t have pocket change to spare. I needed it for bus fare and food. I lived from paycheck to paycheck. Later, living in Texas, I felt uncomfortable reaching into my pocket for money; I did not feel safe. Eventually I began handing out bottled water to panhandlers at traffic intersections. In Texas, especially during summer, water is essential.
Yet that evening I had just heard about the problem of homelessness in the city and was reminded of how incredibly blessed I am to be healthy, employed, have shelter and food and clothing; blessed that I am not addicted to a life-destroying substance, that I have education and experience to give me opportunities. The woman in the wheelchair had a frail, weather-beaten face. She asked if I could spare change; I dug into my pocket and gave her what I had. I said that I didn’t have much, and she replied, “Even a penny will help, dear.” And then she thanked me.
One hundred feet later I was approached as I headed into the station. A young man said, “Excuse me,” and began telling me his woes as we walked downstairs. He was broke, had no place to sleep that night except at a buddy’s motel room, but it would require $7. He had a wound on his leg that he was supposed to keep wrapped, and he went so far as to lift his pant leg to show me. It was indeed a raw looking wound. He kept walking along until I got to the gate. He did not ask for anything specifically and ended with “Anything you could do to help…” To which I answered that I was sorry, I could not. He expressed disappointment. He’d gone through the effort of telling his story for nothing.
All the way home I pondered the situation. Should I have given something? Why did I not? Well, I felt uncomfortable stopping to dig out my wallet to give him money. I was loaded down, my messenger bag heavy with books, my purse tangled on my shoulder. I had no more spare change in my pocket. I did not like the fact that he hooked onto me, following me down the stairs as he told me a sad story. I did not like the fact that he didn’t directly ask me for what he wanted. I felt manipulated, even if he wasn’t consciously playing me. If he’d directly asked me to spare a few dollars, would I have done so? If I’d had a buck in my pocket, I may have. So one reason I didn’t was that I felt unsafe.
Another reason is expressed by these questions: Where does it end? If I give to one person, shouldn’t I give to them all? I can’t afford to, can I? If I don’t give to every person who asks for change, how do I determine who deserves my money?
Another question: How do I know my money won’t be used to buy drugs? If someone says they’re hungry, I could offer to buy them food from a nearby shop. But that still puts me at risk. What if the person attempts to mug me in the process? And really, can I afford to buy a sandwich for everyone who asks for food?
I am saddened by the fact that I live in a world where so many are homeless. I am also grieved by the fact that I am uneasy and on guard, that this edginess mutes my willingness to help. I had some bad experiences many years ago, particularly with men. In one case I was hit in the face by a man on the bus who was egged on by his buddies; the bus driver did nothing. I moved to the front of the bus, and the man who hit me followed me up front, threatening me. The other incident involved a man who lived upstairs from me in Syracuse which involved him speaking abusively to me and grabbing my butt. And there was also the assault (committed by an acquaintance, but it still reverberates in my life).
What is my moral obligation to the world? How do I meet it? Those are the questions on my mind. I give regularly to certain non-profits that deal with literacy, children, environment, wildlife, and hunger. Should I be doing more at street level, one-on-one with humans, meeting their eyes and extending compassion? In the meantime, I’ve decided I will carry in my pocket a few folded dollar bills, easily accessible to hand out the next time my heart is moved and it feels safe to respond. I’m curious as to how you respond when approached.
