On a wet and chilly night in San Diego late last January, I heard an array of colorful comments: "Fuck off." "Why don't you get a job? You're just fucking lazy." "God bless you and stay warm, sweetie." "Hope this dollar helps."
This was to be expected. I was sitting on a corner spanging (pronounced spange-ing). Spanging is what they call panhandling in California, the capital of homelessness in the United States. I was lucky enough to spend the month of January participating in the Winter Term In-Service through DePauw. During this WTIS, one of our undertakings was going out with some of the kids to see if we could make some money.
The comments didn't bother me; I was prepared for them. After about an hour, I realized they didn't bother me the most. It was the number of people who would stare intently at the pavement - the ones who would see us and stick their hands into their pockets as to not let us hear their spare change as they walk by. The ones that didn't see us. Who treated us as ghosts. As subhuman. Not even a blip on their radar.
As the night was winding down and we were getting ready to pack up, a group of girls around my age went walking by and I asked a final time, "Spare some change?" Most of the girls pulled their shopping bags tightly against them and looked away but the one closest to me reared her head back and spit on me. My gut reaction was to get up and grab her, but one of the homeless girls in my group grabbed me and held me back. The group of girls began laughing and remarked, "They're basically trash anyway."
I was enraged. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get up and run after them and tell them they were the trash, not us. I was humiliated. Not because they thought I was homeless, but because they weren't. I was embarrassed to be part of the same statistical grouping as them. At that moment I didn't want to have a house. I didn't want to be white, middle class and in college. I was ashamed.
When we got back to the Stand Up For Kids center, the not-for-profit center we were staying at, we sat in a circle outside and discussed our experiences. Then it was the homeless kids turns to talk. They all agreed that it's not the nasty comments that upset them, but it's the lack of acknowledgement as a human being. One of the boys speaking to us said more or less, "There are some days I was lucky to have someone say terrible things because at least I knew they could see me. At least they had the balls to treat me like a person."
I admitted to my group that night that I was so upset because I saw many aspects of myself in the girl that spit on me. A girl in her early 20s enjoying a night out with friends, obviously opinionated, wearing a sweatshirt with the UC San Diego Triton mascot on it. She reminded me that I hadn't always been so open-minded about the homeless population.
The homeless population in our country is a very diverse and complicated one. They are homeless for millions of different reasons, and they come from all walks of life. However, they comprise a population that people don't want to look at or be reminded of - not necessarily because they are mean or violent, but because most often they make people scared or uncomfortable. Because they are the "other."
My point is that it is not up to us to judge these people. To assume that we know the circumstances that brought them to homelessness. What I am saying is that we have a duty, as human beings, to not forget that they are the same.
You don't have to give spare change or money to make a difference. You don't have to commit hours volunteering at food pantries or shelters. I am challenging you to respond to their questions, even if you don't think it's the answer they are seeking. To look them in the eye. To be mindful that they are not the "other," that they are one of us. To make a difference, you merely have to treat the homeless as they are: humans.
- Cohen is a senior from St. Louis, Mo. majoring in political science.