I once heard a reverend say he believed in giving a destitute person whatever she asks of him, up to the point of genuinely impinging upon his own well being. A dollar, $10, a meal—basically, whatever he has to give.
Justifiably or no, I have never been willing to go that far. Perhaps I’d feel differently if I had any real money, but I’ve always been a girl on a budget—with a bit of poor-man’s mentality, to boot—so I don’t spend cash freely, on myself or anybody else. Can’t afford it.
That doesn’t mean I can’t afford to give a little something usually, and the reverend’s words resonate with me, dovetailing with my consciousness that for most it must rather uncomfortable, if not downright awful, to panhandle. So I’m an easy touch for a dollar. But the other night provided an interesting trial on the subject when I was flagged down while walking through the East Village.
“Can I ask you a question?” the man said, looking at my shoes. “Are those the kind of shoes that you shine?”
I regarded my feet. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. I did know my answer to his real question, but his pitch was already underway.
“Well, look, I’m not looking for a handout,” he said. “That’s why, as you can see”—he held up his little wooden shoeshine kit—”I’m offering a service.”
“I understand, but I’m not really looking for a shoeshine.”
He sighed. “Well, like I said, I’m offering a service. But….” Here he gave an explanation of why he was in need of money. I find that I tend to tune out this portion of such conversations, since I have no way of ascertaining whether the explanation is true (I have been scammed before). “I need nine more dollars to…”—I tuned this out, too—”so if you could spare a 10-spot, that would really help.”
I was taken aback by the audaciousness of the request, though I am a firm believer that it’s all right to ask the question, since the person to whom it’s posed is free to answer how she will. “No, I’m not going to give you $10,” I said (and would have said so even if I’d had that much on me). “But I can give you a dollar.”
I had put down my parcels and withdrawn my wallet, but was stopped cold by his reaction: unabashed disappointment, with a tinge of frustration. His sigh was so pronounced it seemed for show.
“If you don’t want it, that’s fine,” I said, trying to keep irritation out of my voice.
“I’m not going to beg,” he said.
“Begging’s got nothing to do with it,” I answered. “You seem like I just insulted you. And if you don’t want what I’m offering, that’s fine.”
“No, that’s fine,” he said, wanting me to hand over the dollar. I did so, but he held it and gave another little sigh.
“You can give it back if you don’t want it,” I said.
“No, no,” he said, putting it into a pocket. There was a little pause, and then he said: “I appreciate it.”
If his last words to me were sincere, I certainly couldn’t tell, and as I resumed my journey homeward I wasn’t entirely sure that, from his initial reaction to my offer, I shouldn’t have just put my wallet away and walked on.
It’s not that I look for appreciation in such instances. I know what I’m giving isn’t much; and even in my relative penury I qualify as one of the haves, and it seems proper to me that the haves give freely to the have-nots. Maybe not to the extent of the generous reverend, but something.
The choice of whether to give in this instance was a bit of a wrestling match with myself. During those 30 seconds when my would-be shoeshiner was making plain his disappointment with my meager offer, two Greggorys were grappling each other on the mat of my soul. Greggory1 wanted out of the scenario immediately. You’re discontent with what I’m offering? No problem—I’m no longer offering anything. But Greggory2 felt that might be petty, that it was mingy to withdraw the offer because his attitude…wasn’t proper? didn’t please me? That’s where Greggory1 ran into trouble: Greggory3, the referee, couldn’t complete that sentence in a manner that didn’t rub me the wrong way. If the idea is to give at least a little something whenever I am asked and able to do so, what does the receiving have to do with it?
Greggory1 is not sure he deserved to lose the bout, and Greggory2 feels his victory is a bit hollow. It would have felt small to withdraw the offer—but who feels good about giving when the gift evokes dissatisfaction?
I’m not sure what I’ll do if ever again I encounter such a reaction, but probably it will have more to do with what feels right for me. For me, not to me. After all, the only sure thing affected by giving—or not giving—is the giver. Giving is a response to the stimuli of the world—a request for money, a call for blood donations, a perceived problem to be redressed, a belief that a gift will be of use or bring joy. The receiver may be impacted by your choice, but that is beyond your control. When you give, the only direct influence you have is on you. You may have more altruistic notions, but you give because it feels like a good thing to do—good for you, for your sense of balance in the world. You give because it feels that you are shifting the balance toward the better, even if ever so slightly.
I think the impulse to give is a good one, and I don’t want it squelched in me by individual experiences where that impulse is not well met. I don’t walk around believing that my giving a dollar here and there is really making a substantive difference in anyone’s life. But I’d like to believe that even the smallest kindness is better than none at all. And so if ever I fall into error, I hope it’s on the kind side.