I often think of myself as a “cynical idealist”.
I want a world without war, without fear, without bombs. I want a world in which everyone is treated with respect, love, and is happy. I want a world with equal rights, and equal opportunities. I want to walk down the streets of San Francisco without gingerly stepping around a man in a sleeping bag.
I also don’t think this will ever happen.
I see the fortunate walk past the unfortunate every day, in silence. The more fortunate often stare blankly ahead. The less fortunate scan the faces and mannerisms of those around them, desperately, for someone who cares just enough to spare some time and change, maybe a cigarette, just enough to get by.
The other day I was on my way home from work, and I was walking down 7th St on my way to the BART station. As I approached Mission St, I noticed a slow-moving man in a wheelchair and how my fellow commuters walked around him like an obstacle. It wasn’t a foreign scene; I noticed the same thing the next day with a man and his shopping cart.
I was tired, and mused over the idea of a wheelchair, being able to sit down.
I approached him, and I noticed he wasn’t just slow-moving — he wasn’t moving at all; he was stopped.
I started to walk past him, and then I stopped. I turned around. I remember looking at him, and I think I asked if I could help him, but I’m not even sure if it was verbal.
He asked if I could give him a push. He was tired, hungry, and was struggling to get back on the sidewalk. I was the same, and as I struggled to get him back on the sidewalk, I explained I too, was weak. We worked together, and accomplished our goal. He asked for spare change, justifying it with hunger, and I agreed, even exclaimed “of course!” as if it was an absurd question. I gave him all my change, and he softly said, “God bless you”. I didn’t know what to say and “have a good night” almost seemed too trite.
“I hope things get better”, I softly replied.
He repeated, “God bless you”.
I completed the walk to the BART station, trying to feel good about what I just did, but I couldn’t.
It wasn’t enough. There would be many more curbs, and the money I gave him might feed him that night, but there would be more hunger.
I often to listen to John Lennon’s “Imagine” and tear up when he sings, “you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”
It’s true, but dreams don’t always come true, and I’m not even sure just how bad it has to get before it gets better.