An Encounter With The Homeless

Last week, I agreed to teach my friend, a proud country bumpkin, how to take the subway. I wasn’t exactly sure what there was to teach…

Several moments into the ride, I hear “… on the street for six months… HIV positive … Bellevue has turned me away because I do not qualify for free medical care.  A dime, a nickel, even a penny…” No one stirs.  Just another homeless woman asking for a handout, I think. I admit, the homeless used to make me uneasy, but I’ve become too desensitized to care about the Lord killing me if I don’t spare a few pennies for some psychiatric woman. I’ve become so immune to these train announcements; I don’t even listen to the sob stories.

“Oh my gosh! Can we please get off right now?!” My initial reaction to my friend’s nervous exclamation was just laughs. Pu-leez, she’s not going to bother you! This happens all the time… But I felt I needed to quiet her fears, especially the one about HIV positive. I made a quick decision to switch cars before all hell broke loose.

What struck me is the contrast between my—is it nonchalance?—versus my friend’s immediate hysteria. I wondered if it we could both use an extra dose of sensitivity, or if my blasé attitude and her hysterics were just features of our personalities. Better yet, I wondered if I had just taught myself the most important lesson of all, to open my heart a bit wider to the disheartened.