The weather in Florida dropped to mid-forties last week. Out of storage came the heavy sweaters, socks, long pants, caps and fleece jackets, now the attire day and night. Patti and I bundled up and went for brunch in West Palm at Howleys Diner on South Dixie, an active street much like Second Avenue in New York City–lots of restaurants, simple fare and shops offering everything from clock repair to fancy, out of date furniture consignments. After a brief wait a table was available. Seated next to the entrance we felt a cold breeze each time the door opened. Our coffee had just been served when a disheveled young man wearing a dirty Santa hat entered. Unkempt beard, loosely hanging, tattered clothes, he had the appearance of too much time on the streets and not enough time cleaning up. He seated himself next to us and I instinctively pushed my chair away from him and closer to Patti. Not a peep from Patti, casual and unnerved as she can be. Anxious about his close proximity, I looked about and to my surprise there was the manager holding a large to-go cup of hot coffee. He set it carefully in front of the young man, who picked it up with both hands and sipped cautiously, not wanting to spill a drop of the precious commodity. The manager hovered over him and gently coaxed the visitor out the front door. I was relieved, but ashamed that I reacted the way I had, so ill at ease by his presence.
I have encountered homeless people in New York for years; they are more prevalent now, since Covid. I walk around them sitting or lying on the sidewalk in front of CVS on the corner of 68th street and Third Avenue. I fear many have burned bridges with family and friends and lack any support system. Mental illness pervades the homeless population. I have empathy and the desire to help and pressing some cash into an open hand temporarily assuages my guilt. I held out a sandwich once and was told “I don’t like turkey.” I offered what I thought was needed, but it was not what was wanted. Advocates for the homeless have a mantra: “We can’t take away their right to be homeless.” But what does “right to be homeless” mean? What about the right of the average person to feel unafraid when they pass a homeless person, given the number of recorded random attacks? Most homeless are not of sound mind, so are they capable of making decisions in their own best interest? If not, is leaving them on the street and labelling it as their “choice” or “right” morally wrong? Isn’t “homeless” a spectrum — from the single mom who has to live in a motel or in her car with her kids because she was evicted, to the violent, mental hospital patient released prematurely for lack of beds? If they are not capable of helping themselves are our politicians doing enough? I am troubled by the “homeless” problem and all of its implications and questions.
The weather has returned to the usual 80 degrees. I suspect the young man in the Santa cap found the shelter up the road on South Dixie. The line for a meal and a place to sleep starts snaking mid-day in Florida. I am going to seek out answers to some of my questions and do more to help.
