Yesterday while Christmas shopping, I ignored the beggars and gave to the buskers. I’m not proud. It was a cool, overcast gray day. After parking the car, I started walking uphill on Lexington. Asheville is a crumbly old town with lots of hippie-type shops with incense pouring out the doors.
I looked across the street and saw the hemp shop that sells the muscle relaxer salve I’d run out of was open. Usually my chiropractor sells it, but she’s been out of it, saying this shop where she got it wasn’t answering her calls. She had told me where the shop was, so I went over there after my appointment one day, but a sign on the glass door written in soap said they were closed. I called the shop and left a message but heard from no one. So, when I looked across the street, saw the shop sign saying they were open, I decided to investigate.
Normally I would never enter such a shady place.
Normally I would never enter such a shady place. The place was dim and dark and run down. A faded blue couch sat against one wall with a ratty sweatshirt thrown over one arm. Stacks of cardboard boxes sat behind the counter. A black and white cat greeted me, as did the proprietor, a young, scruffy looking man with chin-length curly hair and beard and wearing a winter wool cap. His clothes were disheveled. I wondered if he and his cat were both stoned. But he was polite and very helpful.
The salve I was looking for sat on the counter along with a joint compound that I wondered whether might be even better for my arthritis. The jars were $50 each. He said if I bought two I’d get a discount and pay just $80. I spied a small stick tube of calming and relaxing CBD ointment for $20 and bought it for my son to rub on his temples and the back of his neck. I could imagine him doing this at work.
He had stopped singing and said, “Thank you.”
I left the hemp shop happy with my purchase and continued up the block. Someone was singing a bluesy country song. He had a gorgeous voice, sonorous and dark with sweet highlights, a flexible tone with expressive nuances. I crossed the street to give him $5. His baseball cap was already brimming with singles. I said, “You need a bigger cap.” He had stopped singing and said thank you, and then started up again.
At another shop that sold nothing but bee and honey products was a jar on the counter labeled “tips.” Honestly? And then I thought, Why not? Here they are standing on their feet all day long making hardly a living wage. As I paid for my purchase in cash, I stuffed a single into the jar. The young lady had been busy wrapping my items, lip balm and a bees wax candle, in red tissue paper so I don’t think she saw me do it. But when she said, “Have a nice rest of your day,” she looked right into my eyes which such sincerity I was touched.
They looked like hill people, like they really needed the money.
On the next block, the main drag where the town square is, a bedraggled man and a woman had their cardboard sign out asking for money. They looked like they really needed it. The woman’s mouth was sunken as if she had no teeth. She had an angry, belligerent stare. The man’s clothes were dirty and smudged. He could barely keep his eyelids open and appeared drugged, which is what I assumed he was, or drunk.
I have principles is what I told myself
That familiar clench of anxiety, fear, and guilt seized me as I walked right past them. I might have said hello, but I did not give them money, assuming they wanted it for drugs or booze. They were begging, not busking. I have principles is what I told myself.
I crossed the street to the Chocolate Fetish shop and bought treats with cash for stockings and one for myself, all the while thinking guiltily about the couple across the street. It didn’t occur to me that I could have bought them some chocolates.
Recently, I drove through the hills around Asheville to get to the other side of town and passed one dilapidated trailer park after another. I was eager to get out of that area, glad I wasn’t so poor that I had to live there. Then I thought of all the unhoused individuals who sleep on the sidewalks downtown during the summer. Would a trailer be a blessing even if it were run down, the yard overgrown with weeds?
I had been on my way to a different hemp store that day. After I bought a jar of salve, I went out to my car, then retraced my steps and went back into the shop to buy another jar as a gift for my sister. I felt grateful I had the means to so, that I had a job that paid a decent hourly wage, and that my husband did too.
Beggars remind me of all that I have to lose
I know how fortunate I am to have money to spend and give away. But I like giving it to people who give me something in return. Non-profits do work I value and can support. Buskers offer enjoyment and I like to show my appreciation. Poor people who beg and offer nothing terrify me. I am Scrooge. I donate to several non-profits, including food banks that speak to my heart, but when faced with poverty up close and personal, I shy away. Beggars remind me of all that I have to lose. I walk past to shut out that pain.
When I was a homeless teen I thought playing my flute and opening my case for money would be begging. I didn’t want to demean myself and instead ended up exchanging sex for food and shelter. I didn’t recognize the irony at the time, but I certainly felt the shame.
Today, I shy away from beggars, from the pain of being so far down you have nothing left to lose, not even your dignity. I judge when I have no right to. Instead, I walk right past and ignore the pain and poverty right in front of me. God, forgive me.