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?