To Give Withour Reason

You often say, “I would give, but only to the deserving.”
The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture.
They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish.
Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights,
is worthy of all else from you.”

--Kahlil Gibran

So there’s this woman who has been out and about for the past two years or so in the town right next to mine, where my mailbox is located.  This town is like the center of commerce for all of the little outlying farm communities and suburban enclaves…it contains a fairly large mall, several big chain stores like Borders, Best Buy, Pier One Imports, Old Navy, plus lots and lots of fast food and chain restaurants.  In essence, it is a hotbed of American consumerism at its “finest.”  Insert into this ugly stripmall landscape aflash with minivans and SUVs on a buying mission one lone woman, pushing a shopping cart.

In the winter, when there is snow and ice covering the ground and it is a chore to go from the car to the mailbox, I would see her blanketed in skirts and sweaters, and a yellow raincoat, hood pulled up, braving the wind with her shopping cart.  She seemed to cover a circuit that included stops at several stripmalls for a cigarette break and some rest, but then she would be on the move again.  In the summer, she would be sans some of the skirts and sweaters, with the raincoat open, pushing the cart at a more leisurely pace, but still moving.  I began to notice her in the way you might focus on a blemish, or maybe a smudge in a painting (in this case, a really garish one)…she just didn’t seem to fit.  People, by and large, swarmed around her, uncaring.  They didn’t point or stare; she just occupied her place in this landscape without garnering too much attention.  She walked upright, usually smoking a cigarette.  She has wind-tanned skin, and I noticed that sometimes she has scabs on her face.  Her hair is long and white, and she wears it pulled back at the nape of her neck.  She wears glasses.

At one point, I saw a cop drive by as she was pushing her cart along a fairly busy street, crossing the intersection.  I was worried, because my experience with cops has been that they are none too friendly to those on the margins, repeatedly packing my homeless friend Leroy off to the outskirts of the town where I went to high school and depositing him with the warning not to come back.  (He always did, by the way).  Remarkably, I saw through the back window the cop raise his hand in a wave, and she returned the familiar gesture.  I thought at the time that she must be an accepted fixture in the community, apparently not receiving any overt harassment from this one police officer, at least. 

I think at that point that I began to equate her homelessness in my mind with Leroy’s situation.  He had been a successful businessman, driver of a high status car, owner of a high status house, and father to four children.  One day he just decided it was all a trap, and he wanted out.  He left the car and house with his wife and kids, along with all of his more cumbersome belongings, (which had actually started to own HIM) and “became” homeless.  When I knew him, he had long, thick dreads, a film of dirt from head to toe, several residences in dumpsters around town, and a permanent smile.  Leroy always had a zen way about him.  To me, he seemed to have faced most adults’ greatest fear and smiled in the belly of the beast.  He had no STUFF to define him, was feared and reviled by a society that doesn’t know what to make of someone who can’t be bought, and basically lived hand to mouth every day.  And he seemed happy in a way that other adults I knew just couldn’t seem to achieve.  Wake up, find some food, bum a smoke, walk around a little, maybe read in the library for awhile until some uptight fuck calls the cops to have him tossed out for “loitering,” hang out with some young adults for awhile sharing conversation and a bowl, find a cozy place to sleep.  Doesn’t get much simpler, or harmless really.

So, I had Barbara (that’s her name) pegged as a mystical drop-out from society…someone who wanted to live life on her own terms and refused to jump into the rat race.  I found out yesterday that I was over-simplifying…romanticizing…as I am wont to do.  She and I had begun an acquaintance in which we would exchange pleasantries each day when I would go to the box to get my mail.  One of the stops on her route is in front of the post office for a smoke.  I always park right there in front where I can jump out and run to the box without too much hassle.  As you all may or may not know, I have colored stuff braided into my hair, which changes rather often.  She began by commenting that she liked my hair…I said thanks.  From then on I was ‘the hair lady.”  I noticed that she has an English accent, that she looks straight into your eyes when she talks, and that her voice is deep, rich, and pleasant to listen to.

So for awhile, I’d pull up, jump out, and she’d call “Hey, it’s the hair lady!  You look pretty today!” or something.  Then we’d talk about the weather for a minute or two, I’d go check the box, go back to my car and say goodbye then pull away.  She’d still be sitting there with her smoke and shopping cart.  What struck me about her, was that she didn’t seem to be needy, defensive, or humbled at all…as one might expect from someone in her situation.  On the contrary, she always had something cheerful to say, could often be seen shooting the shit with one of the employees from the stripmall, and made some interesting observations.  I began to find myself kind of looking for her, whenever I would go to the box, and feeling slightly bummed if she wasn’t there.

Yesterday was a particularly nice day, and I was in a particularly crazy mood.  The state of my mental health is nothing we need to delve into too much here, but let’s just say I am a loose cannon, and some days are better than others.  I think I must have been in one of my philosophical, “what’s it all about” moods yesterday, cause I felt like talking to her.  So, after I checked the box, I went over to her.

“Hi.  Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“So, are you like, in this situation because you want to be, like you enjoy the freedom that this lifestyle gives you?”

She looked at me like I was a bit nuts and laughed.

“I’m in my sixties…if anyone had asked me would I be living out of a cart at this age I never would have thought so.  Would you want to be in my place?”

“Well, it just seems like you live life on your own terms, like you aren’t caught up in all the bull shit that other people are.”

“Yes, I do have the ability to do what I want when I want to, and I know I can make it without all of the things that  other people seem to need, but it would still be nice to have a roof over my head.”

“What happened?”

Here she said something about how the government denied her social security, and then things just spiraled down until she found herself in her present position.  I’m not totally clear on the downward trajectory, but I didn’t want to be too nosy.  I asked her if she has tried to get housing.

“Yes, I have been through all of that, but at those shelters they will only help you if they can tell you how to live your life, and I’m too old for someone to be treating me like a child.”

“So you do set your freedom as more important than your comfort.”

She wouldn’t let me simplify it, though, “Well, yes, but I would like to have somewhere to live…it would be much easier in some ways.”

Then it seemed as if she was uncomfortable with the questions, and she turned the conversation to my son.  She had seen him with me on several occasions, and asked where he was.  She told me that she has two grown children, and that both of them went to college.

“I was married for eleven years, but I got tired of that.  Always having someone around making demands on my time.  I have never been lonelier than those eleven years that I was married.  I don’t mind being alone, it’s just feeling alone when you are with someone that is bad.”

So apparently, she kicked her husband to the curb, and was left alone to raise her kids.  She said that they came to the states and lived in public housing, that she worked part time in various jobs, one being a social worker, until the kids were raised.

“When I became homeless, the kids would start to try and tell me what to do, to treat me like I was a child, and I would say, mind your own business, I’m still your mother.”

We talked about how important raising children is, and she said that she has no regrets.

“People have said to me that I should have put concerns for my own future first and done things differently when it came to the children, but even how things turned out, I wouldn’t change a thing.  I can look at my children and I just feel so proud that they are who they are.”

I was feeling kind of weird, because I knew that she needs things, but she is definitely not the type of person who wants to accept a handout, but I said,

“Do you need anything? Not like charity, but if there is anything you need…I can get it for you.”

She patted her cart and said “I’m okay.  I’ve got what I need here.  I try to take it one day at a time.  I like it when I’ve got a smoke, a Pepsi, something to eat.  Long as I’ve got that, I’m fine.”

She said that she looks around at the people scurrying around and she remembers what it was like to be so busy that she couldn’t stop to enjoy anything.  She said that now she can talk to people, really stop and listen.

“You see these people, driving around in these big, expensive cars with their expensive mortgages, and they don’t look happy, and they won’t be.  No matter how much they have, they will always feel like they need more to…

“Keep up with the Joneses?”

“Yes, that’s it.  And it will never be enough, so they will just keep buying and buying.  I don’t feel that way anymore.”

“It’s a disease.”

“Yes, a disease.  I just try to take things as they come, not plan for anything.  I didn’t plan to be in this situation, and I would like to have a roof over my head, some security, but I can accept what I am given.  We are all given a hand to play…I didn’t used to understand this saying, but now I do, and this is my hand.  I just play it how I can.  Plus, you’ve gotta have a sense of humor.”

I told her that from where I’m sitting, she has her shit together way more than most of the people I know.  Then, I said that she probably brings out the worst in some people because she represents everything they fear.

“Some people are mean, most just ignore me, and some will stop and talk.  A lot of the people just walk around looking like they are angry all the time, or in a hurry.  I used to be the same way.”

“I’m afraid some day I will just lose it and just drop out and not be able to put up with the shit anymore, because I don’t care about all the material shit, either, it’s not an incentive for me…and I can’t kiss all the asses…”

“Well, you have to think about whether it is worth it to kiss asses.  I don’t have to.  People try to make you do what they want you to, but it is always your decision…you don’t have to do it.”

I told her that I really like her, and I want to talk to her again.

She is the coolest.  The thing is, now I feel as if it is my responsibility to do something to help her.  JJ thinks that anytime you feel the urge to help someone, there is an element of superiority in it, and pity.  But I swear, I really don’t feel that way.  Really, I just think that there are basic human rights that we all deserve, one of which is housing, and she is being denied that right.  I want to write a letter to the fucking mayor of Fairview Heights and say that there is the wisest woman living in his city, and that she is sleeping on the sidewalk because she doesn’t have enough money for an apartment.  But then, he would probably want to throw her into some shelter where they would “counsel” her on how to get and keep and job to make her ready for the “Welfare to Work” program, and if she didn’t want to jump through hoops, they would treat her like a pariah.  Is there anything available for a woman who wants to live with dignity, doesn’t want to “earn” her keep in some degrading minimum wage job, and would rather push a cart around town than surrender her soul?  If there is…let me know, because I haven’t been able to find it.

Leslie Wolter is an English Instructor at McKendree College in Lebanon, Illinois.

Email: Leslie Wolter

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