I recently visited Chicago with my nine-year old daughter. We stayed at an old hotel near the city center, just south of the Chicago River. Though it was a high rent district, one of our neighbors worked as a beggar.
When the beggar first approached us on that wide sidewalk in front of Corner Bakery, my daughter was apprehensive. He asked us for money and I flatly turned him down. He grumbled something.
I almost always reject requests for panhandling and I’m always troubled by my own behavior. What if that person was legitimately in need, I usually wonder. What if the beggar is mentally ill and he doesn’t really have the intellectual wherewithal to make the kinds of decisions necessary to improve his situation? Though I don’t believe in the existence of any sentient God, another thought sometimes occurs to me: what if God Himself actually does exist and He has taken the form of a beggar to test us, to see how we treat those who are less fortunate than us?
When my daughter and I returned to our hotel that night, the same fellow was still walking about, asking people for money. When we saw him the next morning too, I decided to try to learn a few things about him. I gave him two dollars and asked him if he would tell me a few things about himself. He looked happy to meet someone who cared enough to listen.
Herman [not his real name] is 50 years old. He used to work at an accounting firm, “sweeping up,” but claimed that he “couldn’t work anymore” because of a chronic leg injury. He didn’t walk with any noticeable limp. Herman explained that he went through some “tough times” a few years ago, leading up to the deaths of his parents. I asked him if he had tried to get a job recently. He said that he simply “couldn’t.” He told me that he was homeless. He allowed me to take his photo and he gave us the “thumbs up” as we parted ways (I’ve blurred out his face).
My daughter asked me why we spoke to the man. I told her “because he is a human being and he has a story to tell.”
The following day, Herman waved hello to us, calling out “St. Louis!” We chatted a bit more in the 25-degree weather. Herman walks the Chicago sidewalks from 7 am to 7 pm every day. He shakes a small Styrofoam cup at people twelve hours, every day, even in the frozen Chicago wind that causes many people to scurry to get inside.
Here’s the obvious question: Though Herman “couldn’t work,” he was willing to spend long hours every day not working—and doing it with dedication. Why . . . why couldn’t he just use that same energy to work a real job?
We spoke a few more times over my three-day stay in Chicago. During that short time, he changed from a potential threat to an acquaintance to both me and my daughter.
Herman and I live in completely separate worlds, I’d like to believe. Then again, Herman was out there again tonight, shaking his little cup at people while, 265 miles away, I wrote about him and found myself disturbed by his predicament. But not disturbed enough to do anything about it. There’s no moral to this story, I keep whispering to myself.
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