Evergrey
July 18th, 2006, 12:29 AM
I thought this was a rather surreal article from Buffalo's Business First publication.
http://buffalo.bizjournals.com/buffalo/stories/2006/07/17/editorial2.html?t=printable
Buffalo beggars
Business First of Buffalo - July 14, 2006by Gary Burns
Coming back to the office after lunch one day I turn a corner onto Main at a place where the sidewalk is broad and lots of people are coming and going.
Out of the corner of my eye a dark shape is moving fast, right to left, more or less on an intercept course with me.
Guy in a wheelchair zooms into my path. He's hunched forward; he's all scrunched up. I don't know what that means.
He waves a metal cup in my general direction. A few coins jangle around.
He makes noises that I don't understand, though I do comprehend the insistent tone. I don't need to make out the words. It's clear what he wants.
He waves the cup at me. He makes more noises.
I'm uncomfortable. I want to get away.
I want to help him.
I want to get away.
I want to help him.
I get away.
Americans generally call it panhandling, but the old-fashioned term is "begging."
There have always been beggars. As long as history has been written, there have references to them.
Practitioners come in all sizes, shapes, colors and descriptions. Some of them look like nine-to-fivers on a day off; they could middle-class refugees from a golf outing.
Some people are reduced to begging, and they look it. They beg because other survival options have been closed off, for whatever reasons.
A small number of people are beggars by choice, full and part-time. Maybe, under the right circumstances, it's possible to pick up a little quick cash this way. But it's almost impossible to make a living, despite assertions to the contrary contained in certain urban myths. Research bears this out.
It's obvious, isn't it, that I'm uncomfortable when confronted by panhandlers. Perhaps that's the game - to make me uncomfortable. Perhaps it's all psychology, weaving together elements of shame and guilt, fear and intimidation and then attempting to push the entire bundle into the head of a prospective giver.
If I'm made to feel uncomfortable, perhaps I'll be more likely to pay.
How do you feel when you're hit up by a panhandler? Are you uncomfortable too? Are you amused? Are you indifferent? Are you angry?
Do you pay?
Taking a long lunchtime walk on a beautiful summer Tuesday.
"Excuse me, do you have the time?"
The woman stops directly in front of me, looks straight into my eyes. Short. Not young; her hair is scattered with gray. Neatly dressed. Pleasant smile.
The midsummer sun is above us; its furnace doors are open. You can see waves of heat shimmering back up from the sidewalk.
"It's, ahhh- 12:35," I say as I move to walk on. There is certainly nothing menacing in the exchange. Yet, my internal alert system is pinging.
"Thank you so much," she says pleasantly, like a fictional schoolmarm in a fictional universe. "By the way, I'm looking for (such-and-such) church. Do you know where it is?"
"I, ahhh, no. I don't."
"Well, thank you." She steps slightly to the side and we begin to pass. I'm not quite away from her when it comes:
"Say, you wouldn't happen to have any spare change, would you? Perhaps a dollar?"
She seems so nice. And perhaps she is. I want to give her something.
But I don't.
I'm walking south on Washington Street. There's a small parking lot between buildings. I see a man striding across the lot. He could be me, honest to goodness. I mean, at first glance he fits into the same mental compartment where I might put myself. He's decently dressed: sport shirt and a pair of shorts, running shoes. He could be just a guy with what we call a regular job and a regular life. He could be on his way to a ball game down the street. Or he could be running errands on a day off.
But he's not.
"Hey man," he says, beaming like an old friend. "You got a dollar you can give me?" He asks in a manner that suggests he deserves the dollar, that, from his point of view, it's my duty to give it to him.
My hands reflexively slap my pockets. "I don't have a dime," I lie, picking up my pace, getting away.
http://buffalo.bizjournals.com/buffalo/stories/2006/07/17/editorial2.html?t=printable
Buffalo beggars
Business First of Buffalo - July 14, 2006by Gary Burns
Coming back to the office after lunch one day I turn a corner onto Main at a place where the sidewalk is broad and lots of people are coming and going.
Out of the corner of my eye a dark shape is moving fast, right to left, more or less on an intercept course with me.
Guy in a wheelchair zooms into my path. He's hunched forward; he's all scrunched up. I don't know what that means.
He waves a metal cup in my general direction. A few coins jangle around.
He makes noises that I don't understand, though I do comprehend the insistent tone. I don't need to make out the words. It's clear what he wants.
He waves the cup at me. He makes more noises.
I'm uncomfortable. I want to get away.
I want to help him.
I want to get away.
I want to help him.
I get away.
Americans generally call it panhandling, but the old-fashioned term is "begging."
There have always been beggars. As long as history has been written, there have references to them.
Practitioners come in all sizes, shapes, colors and descriptions. Some of them look like nine-to-fivers on a day off; they could middle-class refugees from a golf outing.
Some people are reduced to begging, and they look it. They beg because other survival options have been closed off, for whatever reasons.
A small number of people are beggars by choice, full and part-time. Maybe, under the right circumstances, it's possible to pick up a little quick cash this way. But it's almost impossible to make a living, despite assertions to the contrary contained in certain urban myths. Research bears this out.
It's obvious, isn't it, that I'm uncomfortable when confronted by panhandlers. Perhaps that's the game - to make me uncomfortable. Perhaps it's all psychology, weaving together elements of shame and guilt, fear and intimidation and then attempting to push the entire bundle into the head of a prospective giver.
If I'm made to feel uncomfortable, perhaps I'll be more likely to pay.
How do you feel when you're hit up by a panhandler? Are you uncomfortable too? Are you amused? Are you indifferent? Are you angry?
Do you pay?
Taking a long lunchtime walk on a beautiful summer Tuesday.
"Excuse me, do you have the time?"
The woman stops directly in front of me, looks straight into my eyes. Short. Not young; her hair is scattered with gray. Neatly dressed. Pleasant smile.
The midsummer sun is above us; its furnace doors are open. You can see waves of heat shimmering back up from the sidewalk.
"It's, ahhh- 12:35," I say as I move to walk on. There is certainly nothing menacing in the exchange. Yet, my internal alert system is pinging.
"Thank you so much," she says pleasantly, like a fictional schoolmarm in a fictional universe. "By the way, I'm looking for (such-and-such) church. Do you know where it is?"
"I, ahhh, no. I don't."
"Well, thank you." She steps slightly to the side and we begin to pass. I'm not quite away from her when it comes:
"Say, you wouldn't happen to have any spare change, would you? Perhaps a dollar?"
She seems so nice. And perhaps she is. I want to give her something.
But I don't.
I'm walking south on Washington Street. There's a small parking lot between buildings. I see a man striding across the lot. He could be me, honest to goodness. I mean, at first glance he fits into the same mental compartment where I might put myself. He's decently dressed: sport shirt and a pair of shorts, running shoes. He could be just a guy with what we call a regular job and a regular life. He could be on his way to a ball game down the street. Or he could be running errands on a day off.
But he's not.
"Hey man," he says, beaming like an old friend. "You got a dollar you can give me?" He asks in a manner that suggests he deserves the dollar, that, from his point of view, it's my duty to give it to him.
My hands reflexively slap my pockets. "I don't have a dime," I lie, picking up my pace, getting away.