i wish i didn't care

I was walking home in my newly purchased Amnesty shirt, after a frustrating afternoon, in which among other things I found out that the online plane tickets I was keeping an eye on had all disappeared, when I met this Katrina survivor.
Or so he introduced himself. Afro-American in his late fifties, well-dressed, he stopped me by shaking my hand and calling me nice lady. I knew what it was all about, but as usual I couldn’t force myself to be rude, or simply firm, and keep going. I waited patiently until he recounted his story: a homeless father of a little daughter who had to collect 20 bucks in order to leave the city, after having grocery shopped at… Treasure Island!

“I don’t shop at the fucking expensive Treasure Island! I go to two different grocery stores to get the best deal on different items!”

Of course, I didn’t say this, nor I asked him about any detail of his misfortune (where is your daughter?). But when he began to produce the story of him being a poet and being ready to compose a poem for me on the spot, I found the spirit of telling him that I unfortunately wasn’t even close to giving him 20 bucks. Following the usual plot, he said everything could help. And I gave him 2 bucks. Which he took disappointedly!

I walked away feeling angry and guilty, as always. Because this scene has happened many times, of course, both in the US and in Italy. I generally find easier to say no to young drug addicts at the Termini station, asking for money for a ghostly train they will never, sadly, take. But that’s about all my resilience.

This guy didn’t look like a drug addict at all. Nor like a homeless, for that matter. He looked like a gentle man, a gentle liar. As always, I was in the grip of guilt for my good luck, and of anger because I like to think it’s not totally undeserved (whether luck can be deserved is a question we will not face now).

Above all I felt exploited. Why do people have to lie? Of course, I know the answer. Even though everybody who gives money after hearing these stories does not believe them, the stories work because, after all, they could be true (well, besides the Treasure Island bit). Not just for that single person, in front of us: 1 out of 100 maybe says the truth. But for all those who are in those conditions, and don’t ask for money. Those people exist, in the thousands, and we all have a responsibility for it.

But I hate it. I hate to feel ripped off of my two bucks, I hate to be lied to. I hate to see the disappointment on their face when I give them a tenth of what they asked me. I wish my sense of guilt would be healed by a grateful smile for once.

I went to the grocery store, picking up the cheapest cans with a sort of rage. And sadness, and sense of inadequacy. I wish I didn’t care, either way. I wish I didn’t care if someone lies to me for a couple of bucks. And I wish I didn’t feel all the misery that is all around us.

Once in Italy a woman asked me for money for buying drugs for her little daughter who was sick. She looked so sincere I gave it a try: I told her I would go with her to the pharmacy and buy her medicines. She refused, saying that particular pharmacy nearby was closed. She seemed so humiliated, I felt bad for doubting her, but it was just so clear she was lying. However, I gave her a not trivial amount, feeling I really wanted to believe her. I met her again a few days later, she was repeating the same story. I didn’t stop, feeling stupidly embarrassed, for her, for me, for everyone. It strikes me now that illness can be chronic. Like poverty, exploitation, and all the evils of this world.