Intrepid Women: My Life on the Street, Part II

by Paige Churchman (New York City)

The next morning, Genro and Paco marveled that we hadn’t been chased out, and we set off for breakfast at the St. Francis Mission, more than 50 blocks north. Outside a church on some midtown street, we joined a long line, spreading ourselves out among the real homeless people as Genro and Paco had urged. The streets hadn’t really come alive yet, but a few people in suits scuffed by without seeing us. I wondered what breakfast would be. I pictured a big basement room with tables and bowls of oatmeal. But when the line finally started moving, I found the payoff was a table on the sidewalk where a monk silently handed me two ham and cheese sandwiches in clear wrap. I gave one to another woman who hesitated and then took it with a smile. I saved the other for someone else later. I wondered, if I really were homeless, would I have to eat meat so as not to starve?

Begging at Union Square
Lunch was heaven. We begged at the Union Square Green Market and then bought makings for salads and sandwiches. Begging is part of every street retreat, just as Buddha went out every morning with his monks asking for alms. I had figured I could go at begging the same way I shrugged off competition at work. I planned to go through the motions. No way. I was paired with Paco, the old pro who goes at everything with infectious gusto. Genro made drop-in appearances. When he caught me passing up a prospect, he told me, “Don’t make the decision for them.” Ahhh, that’s a new way to think about it. Later, he came back with a paper cup. “People don’t like putting money in your hand.” He was right. The cup worked! Paco and I cleaned up with something like three bucks. The forty minutes flew by.

The wall that strangers put up was hard to break through but when they let us in, it could be deeply affecting. I found myself face to face with a young alpha male in a suit. At work, kids like him treated me with deference, but this guy acted like I didn’t exist. I felt the heat rise in my throat. I stifled the words I heard in my head “I’m a vice president at Citigroup! Would you look at me!?” Then I laughed at myself. Boy, I didn’t know I had it in me even to think screaming rank like that.

Then there was the woman who stopped after passing. She turned and we looked into each other’s faces like real people. “I wasn’t going to give you anything, but I changed my mind. I’m not going to ask you why you need it,” and she dropped some change into my cup. There was an old African American woman pushing a tired shopping cart with a few kids in tow who gave without hesitation.

The Rest and The End

The rest of the retreat went like that─waves of ups, waves of downs and walking, walking, walking. On the last morning, one of the other participants talked about waking up on a bench in the dark of Battery Park. She looked around and saw rats going through some trash on the ground, not far away. “I don’t hate rats,” she said, but seeing them so close then made her shudder. “All right, get your food,” she thought, “But just stay over there. Leave me alone.” Then she realized that what she felt about those rats was probably how people felt when they saw her this weekend. The funny thing about compassion is how it permeates. She was feeling for the despisers as well as the despised. She, and all of us, had been on both sides.

Then it was over. We divided what money we had so that everyone had subway fare to get home and to buy coffee and bagels if they wanted. I stumbled home, showered and slept for 20 hours. On Tuesday, I got up, put on my suit and went back to my office. It seemed miraculous I could walk into the elevator bank by virtue of a plastic card. I listened to my friends’ weekend tales but didn’t tell mine. Until now.