Standing in a cramped subway car, just hoping that the train will arrive at its destination two stops away, without one of the many delays we have come to expect from our crumbling transit system. To some Grand Central Station with its teaming pulse of humanity, is the center of the universe. I find it annoyingly busy with way too many workers, and I mean that pejoratively, endlessly rushing about their days, thinking of how important their tasks are, not realizing how pathetic it really is, the frantic nature that possess them. They are uncentered beings, even worse they have no will to become centered, their lives are outwardly facing, which leads to nothing. Only by looking inward can truth be found.
As I stand waiting for this cattle car to reach its destination, I hear the dreaded voice of the dispossessed, the homeless panderer, filter throughout the car. “Please help, I am doing the best I can. I almost have my construction license. I could be robbing or stealing, but instead I am asking for help”. Like most New Yorkers, I lower my head and at all costs do not make eye contact. On my feet I see my Belgian slippers, if you know you know. Jeans from my favorite company, imported from the Anatolian heartland. A bespoke oxford shirt, bespoke for you heathens out there means I had it made from scratch by Carl at CEGO. A regular Polo cardigan and a Barbour coat, not one of the new coats they make for the uninitiated, but a true shooting jacket. To top it all off I am carrying a beautiful leather bag that was made in an artisanal workshop in the southwest of France.
As I stand there, an embodiment of success and listen to this vagabond speak I am struck by his words. The humiliation that he feels having to ask every stranger he meets for a handout. You can hear the dejectedness in his voice. He tells us of how hard being a good man is when one is living on the street, always thirsty and always hungry. He says he does not need cash only our loose change. It is pitiable. But it is that pity I feel which makes me think of how I should act. How as a Christian my lord and savior commands me to act to those most in need. How this man could be an angel sent to test us, how this man could be Christ himself, for he is always with the least amongst us.
My Christian heart was opening for this man. I know this man, not personally but I know this type of man, I was that man. The shame and pain of having nowhere to go is something I know. The dejected nature of being the unwanted and pitiable was a feeling of which I had intimate knowledge. But even with both sympathy and empathy, I still was having a problem doing the next right thing. I stood frozen for a minute while the train was pulling into the 59th street station. I quietly and surreptitiously remove cash from my pocket. As I step off the train, to allow the other passengers to get off, before I get back on a thankfully less crowded train. I reach out and hand the man the money. He takes it says thank you and then looks closer, seeing the denomination, looks me in the eyes with a furtive glance and says “thank you very much, thank you”.
The woman whom I was standing next to looked at me quizzically. Within that look was contained the question, “Why would you have just given that man money? You are just compounding the problem by giving him a handout”. I thought for a second I saw an expression of approval, but that is rarely the case. Part of me wanted to scream out at her asking if she was a compassionate human being? Asking her if in the other she saw herself, the human being that is present in all of us, regardless of race, creed, or socioeconomic status? I wanted to hell her that could have been her or I. I wanted her to know that not so long ago that man was me, but for the grace of God there go I. But I said nothing. For the shame and fear of that time still lingers. I hide it very well, beneath the exterior of my success.