I travel a lot. And I've been to some pretty piss-poor countries, so I'm not really a stranger to, say, being chased by a flock of beggars. Having said that, I've never developed a strategy that jives with my conscience. While I was in India, I realized that, comparatively, Toronto's poor are so goddamn polite. They suffer quietly, and for the most part, we don't dig. We're happy to be cradled in our own ignorance; we learn how to look through people. Well... you know how in the first episode of Six Feet Under, how everyone wanted Ruth to stop crying at the funeral because it was embarrassing, and how Nate just stood up and told everyone to just let her be? To let her cry and scream and wail if that's what she felt? Well the neighborhood around the bookstore's kinda like that too. There's no quiet poverty here.
High Time...
Went to the No Frills for a lunch buy today. There was a native woman standing at the doors, screaming "Get Out! Get Out!!" She doesn't seem to be able to say anything else. It's clear that she's not high or drunk, just that she's mentally ill and has been left to fend for herself. There's nothing for anyone to be afraid of, save for the affront of acknowledging how pitiful the situation is. She pauses as people enter and exit, with an outstretched hand and an imploring look. When they look past her and walk around her, she resumes her screaming, "Get Out!! Get Out!!" She is like a lyrebird, or a recorder stuck on play. Repeating the last phrase captured; the last point of interaction she's had with anyone; the last thing anyone has bothered to say to her.
When I leave the supermarket, she's moved away from the doors. She's a little further up the street coming towards me, screaming "Get Out! Get Out!" She pauses on cue in front of me, her hand outstretched, gurgling sounds but not words, intonated in a "please". I hand her the orange in my pocket. She smiles- this wide, surprised, warm, beautiful smile. She says "Thank you" and continues on her way.
Low Time...
It's near close. A woman walks in shivering from the cold, her hands clasped in prostration. She says, "Please, I am poor. I would be really grateful if you could please spare a dollar". Her voice dangles desperately, holding back. She looks like she's afraid of me, she's trying so hard to tread lightly, she's ashamed to be bothering me. I hesitate, and she quickly bows to me, mumbles apologies and turns for the door. "Want an orange?" I blurt out. She reaches out to take it, bows profusely, backs out the door and proceeds to rip the orange apart, skin and all. Between mouthfuls, she yells "Thank you! God Bless You! Thank you! Thank you! THANK YOU!!"
I try to go back to my book as she stands by my window; as I'm showered with Thank Yous.
I feel terrible.
High Time...
Went to the No Frills for a lunch buy today. There was a native woman standing at the doors, screaming "Get Out! Get Out!!" She doesn't seem to be able to say anything else. It's clear that she's not high or drunk, just that she's mentally ill and has been left to fend for herself. There's nothing for anyone to be afraid of, save for the affront of acknowledging how pitiful the situation is. She pauses as people enter and exit, with an outstretched hand and an imploring look. When they look past her and walk around her, she resumes her screaming, "Get Out!! Get Out!!" She is like a lyrebird, or a recorder stuck on play. Repeating the last phrase captured; the last point of interaction she's had with anyone; the last thing anyone has bothered to say to her.
When I leave the supermarket, she's moved away from the doors. She's a little further up the street coming towards me, screaming "Get Out! Get Out!" She pauses on cue in front of me, her hand outstretched, gurgling sounds but not words, intonated in a "please". I hand her the orange in my pocket. She smiles- this wide, surprised, warm, beautiful smile. She says "Thank you" and continues on her way.
Low Time...
It's near close. A woman walks in shivering from the cold, her hands clasped in prostration. She says, "Please, I am poor. I would be really grateful if you could please spare a dollar". Her voice dangles desperately, holding back. She looks like she's afraid of me, she's trying so hard to tread lightly, she's ashamed to be bothering me. I hesitate, and she quickly bows to me, mumbles apologies and turns for the door. "Want an orange?" I blurt out. She reaches out to take it, bows profusely, backs out the door and proceeds to rip the orange apart, skin and all. Between mouthfuls, she yells "Thank you! God Bless You! Thank you! Thank you! THANK YOU!!"
I try to go back to my book as she stands by my window; as I'm showered with Thank Yous.
I feel terrible.
