Vol. 128 - Feeding the Hungry

They notice when you do good. Hell, they notice everything.

Last summer, as he and I walked through Times Square late one evening, my son told me that, despite the two orders of popcorn and bag of Skittles he had during Back the Future: The Musical, he was still hungry.

As we were at the center of Times Square, surrounded by options, and on vacation, I let him pick whatever he wanted to eat. As we neared the door at the southern-fried chicken chain Raising Cain’s (whose Times Square location inexplicably has a live DJ), a homeless man approached my son and me, asking for money.

I told the man I had no cash on me but I would happily buy him a meal, which is usually my go-to when I have the time and ability to feed someone on the streets.

Despite spending the last few years in lovely Chapel Hill, I’ve lived most of my adult life in major cities. A half-decade in Philadelphia, a little post-college sojourn to Rome, and ten years in Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan all preceded my now-quiet life in North Carolina. And in that time, I don’t think I’ve ever handed over cash to a homeless person. What I have done, countless times, is buy meals, drinks, even booze and smokes for people living on the streets. What I don’t think I’ve ever done is handed over cash (partially because I haven’t carried cash for most of the last two decades).

My son watched intently as I invited the homeless man to come in and order a meal with us. The man told me that he wasn’t allowed inside and asked for a single biscuit and an iced tea. Inside, I asked my son if he thought a single biscuit was enough for the man who was very obviously very hungry. My son said it probably wasn’t and suggested we order the biggest meal on the menu. Seeing as that was some kind of fifty-piece tailgate special, we settled on a meal of a few pieces of chicken, fries, a biscuit, and a large drink.

On the subway ride back to Brooklyn, where we were staying in for the week, my son asked why I didn’t give the man money like he had asked.

I explained to my son that if I gave the man money, he might use that money for any number of things, things I have no control over. I did my best to explain addiction (admittedly painting all homeless people with too broad a brush) to a six-year-old and how many people living on the streets battle that disease. I told my son that buying food for a homeless person is my choice because, if I buy that person food, I knew that, at the very least, there would be a meal in their belly.

Back in Brooklyn, as walked from the subway to our apartment, another man approached us, asking for money. I apologized and kept walking. My son, confused, asked why I didn’t buy that man a meal as well. Again, I rattled off a list of reasons as my son listened intently (which, as any parent to a six-year-old knows, is a rare moment, a moment we are IMPLORED to take advantage of). I explained how if I gave to everyone who asked, we might not have anything left for our own needs. I explained how there didn’t appear to be any restaurants open at that hour in our quiet, residential neighborhood. I explained how it was after midnight and he had camp the following morning and we needed to get home.

Like any other lesson we tell our kids, I wondered if any of it was landing. I wondered if it was all falling on deaf ears.

But then, a few weeks later, back home in Chapel Hill, my son tugged at my sleeve as we neared our local Trader Joe’s. There was a man outside with a sign saying that he was homeless and hungry. My son asked if we could buy the man a meal. I told him absolutely, that, if the man was still outside when we got out there, we could walk over to a nearby Chipotle and get him whatever he wanted.

Of course, inside the store, my son brought the man up again, reminding me that we couldn’t give the man money because he’d probably just use it for drugs.

Once again, I did my best to explain in a way that my six-year-old could possibly understand how I expressed a generalization back in Brooklyn, that not everyone on the streets was using drugs, that we can’t make such broad assumptions about people, that I was just trying to make a point to him.

And then I was quickly reminded that, even when we think they’re not paying attention, our kids are listening. In fact, more often than not, they’re listening to each and every thing we have to say.

By the time we finished shopping and pushed our cart through the front doors at Trader Joe’s, the man was gone. I watched my son’s eyes dart around the parking lot, searching for him. Finally, in the lot’s far corner, we saw the man being helped into a country outreach van.

“I bet they’re not taking him to Chipotle,” my son said. “But I hope they’re taking him for something to eat.”