A Cry From the Helpless

I woke up late by any standards, but in one of those restless moods you sometimes get when the air is charged with an almost palpable electricity and you feel that something needs to give. Something needs to change. But you can't quite tell what that something is, and so you start doing a million busy things to feel useful. I cracked open my Spanish textbook, worked for a while, started my laundry and realized I was out of fabric softener, then walked to Albertsons (the only grocery store you feel you can go to in your pajamas) to pick up some Downy.

It was on the return, after I hit the little crosswalk button, and I was thinking about how we all stand at crosswalks waiting for something, when I saw him. A curious individual who I almost didn't recognize, he blended in so well with the pavement. His outfit was various shreds of clothes in different shades of gray or graying, and he had a grizzled beard which hid his mouth. He had a hat pulled down over his eyes, as though to hide himself from the world. Or perhaps to shut the world out. In one hand he was holding a bag to his shoulder, worn from travel and with a couple of tin cans poking out. I couldn't read the labels. In the other hand, he held a pair of sneakers that matched the rest of him: graying, aged, and loaded with years of use. My eyes rested on the only sources of color on his person, which were his feet. I noticed with a start that they were bare. No socks, no sandals; just bare sun-burned feet, the heels hardened and cracked from the journey.

I didn't know this man. At once I felt a little uneasy, knowing that in a few moments our paths would cross. Should I acknowledge him? Offer him money? Look away? Selfish thoughts entered my mind, and though my heart wanted to go out to him my mind still did not understand him. If he had a pair of shoes, why didn't he wear them? Was he making a statement? Was he homeless? If he had no place to sleep, where was he going? What was he looking for?

Two things happened at once. The stoplights changed colors, making the little blinking "cross" figure light up opposite me. As I adjusted my load and prepared to take a step forward, the man looked up from under the shelter of his hat. His eyes pierced directly into mine, and in them there was such power of sorrow and accusation that it made me catch my breath. It was a look full of meaning and full of emotion, as though he were shouting at me: "what right do YOU have to own a place to sleep, and food to eat, and an opportunity for education within these rich walls, and I have nothing? What makes you think you can pity me-YOU-who has no idea where I've been? YOU are nothing."

After a moment I realized I had frozen midstep, and I put my foot down awkwardly. The man, his head bent forward once more, had chosen to cross the road opposite us rather than pass me. As though my very presence offended him too greatly to come within a few inches of each other and breathe the same air. The driver of the car in front of me, who had been waiting for the silly college girl to cross the road and now saw her wide eyed and staring into space, honked his horn impatiently. I snapped to, quickly skipping over the road until I was safe on the lawn in front of the dorms. I looked back and searched for the gray outline of the man, but saw only cars flashing past. He was gone.

What did it mean? Why such anger? Why such sorrow? The day seemed colder suddenly, and I shivered as I turned to go. Later, as I cranked up the heater in my room and looked around me at my bed, my little fridge full of leftovers from good meals in a safe campus, my new purchases on the desk, my laundry to be dried...I could have died. What right did i have to these things? In less than four years time I'd be graduated from here, my time in Caldwell spent. What could I possibly do in that time that would justify this comfort, while the man outside wandered without shoes and ate out of cans?

I'd like to think I do my part for humanity. I've given blood at every drive this year. I deliver meals to families in Nampa and Caldwell for the Food Bank. I slip dollar bills into the Salvation Army tins. When people drive me places, I offer to pay for gas. The tuition isn't cheap here, and I would never be where I am without my scholarships, which I work hard to maintain. Isn't that enough? Doesn't that count for something?

"What makes you think you can pity me-YOU-who has no idea where I've been?"...those words, which I remind myself were never actually uttered aloud, but which nevertheless were communicated, suggest that it's not enough. It counts for something perhaps, but it doesn't change that man's life one way or the other. My blood will not save his life. My meals will not reach his door. My dollar bills mean nothing to him. And my education? What does it matter to a man who will not benefit from my knowledge?

Tonight while on route for Food Bank, two families out of the ten asked to be removed from the program. One because they were doing so well financially they felt they didn't need it anymore, and one because they were doing so poorly and life had become so complicated they didn't want to add one more inconvenience. I've been helping with deliveries for months now, long enough to develop a love and sympathy for those we deliver to, and the two announcements came as blows to an already disappointing day. It was as if the wandering man was laughing at me: "your efforts are wasted...you are nothing..."

Upon reflection I realize that I was not the target of the man's anger. I just happened to represent the many things which he despised; I could stand there and take his silent accusation and not fight back. Along with the shame I feel at having so much while he has so little, there is also the burning desire to prove him wrong. The same desire, I think to some extent, that every college student on campus has. To prove that we are something. To prove that we deserve to be here and can do worthwhile things. Most of all, to prove that we don't forget the "wandering men" around the world.

An Ode to Valentine's Past

Breathe in. Breathe out. Excitement. Did the boy with the brown eyes and the freckles really give ME a paper valentine? Does he *giggle* LIKE like me? Breathe in. Breathe out. Stress. I'm running out of valentines that just imply friendship...should I give this boy a Spongebob or a Captain Planet? Classrooms full of glue, glitter, and construction paper. The agonizing over who gets what and which message to send to whom and guarding fragile third grader feelings. Sugar cookies. Icing. I must wear pink. I HATE pink. Why do I have to wear this? Isn't white or red good enough? *Gasp* that girl wore BLUE. What does that mean? Doesn't she have a Valentine? Breathe in. Breathe out. Disappointment. I didn't get as many valentines this year. But no matter, mom made cupcakes!

Valentine's Day is one of those holidays, like Christmas, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, and that odious day dedicated to a groundhog...which loses enchantment the older one becomes. As a child, there's an almost tangible feeling of magic; of conspiracy and youth--associated with these holidays. (Okay, so there's nothing magical about a groundhog,) but there IS something magical about crayons and creativity, no homework for a day, kid's moms coming in with things that taste better than the cafeteria, stickers on noses and frosting on shoes. For just a day, the entire school is wreathed in smiles and fun and drama easily resolved with a tissue and a new activity. The real purpose of the holiday is lost of course; completely buried in layers of sticky sugar and sequined popsicle sticks. Jesus gains one hundred pounds and rides in a sleigh, or sprouts two ears and deposits eggs in secret places. Ancient celebrated saints and goddesses are reduced to pots of gold, fat winged babies and paper bags.

Years pass. Religious meaning becomes known and cherished or discarded. When work and school are no longer canceled for a rodent and his shadow, the less significant holidays' dates are forgotten. Suddenly Valentine's Day becomes something much more sinister. Of course, commercialization has superficially degraded every holiday under the sun, but Valentine's Day seems to take an extra hit from the media. "Prove you love so and so with a diamond necklace...show you care with chocolates!" In other words, "THE AMOUNT OF LOVE YOU HAVE IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO THE SIZE OF YOUR WALLET."

Now wait a second. Step back and think about this! Wasn't it the Beatles who sang "Can't Buy Me Love" and generations sang along? If you're actually IN a relationship, do you really need a day on the calendar to remind you of it? And if you're NOT in a relationship, do you really deserve to have it rubbed into your face for a week, watching parades of flowers and cards and kisses? I've heard that many call it "Single Awareness Day," or S.A.D. rather than it's official name. It might be a good day for the economy, but it's a sad day for the human soul.

Nevertheless, the date marches on. No amount of protest will halt the onslaught. So instead, I offer only some advice as you celebrate this year's "Day of Love," whether you are alone this year or have someone to share the celebration with.

My advice is this: spend TIME, not money, and concentrate on SHARING rather than giving. Yes, there is a difference between the two. You can give without sincerity, but you can't share without wanting to.

The best valentine's I have ever received from the opposite sex came in the smallest, cheapest, and most meaningful packages (I'm NOT talking about condoms). Many of them didn't even come on Valentine's day, but meant more to me than they would have otherwise because the command "DO SOMETHING FOR A GIRL TODAY" was not screaming at them at the time.

I remember a boy in tenth grade who did something extraordinary: he purchased two dozen or so purple carnations, and throughout the day walked up and down the halls looking for girls who looked sad, or lonely, or obviously lacked that "valentine vibe." Then he would hand them a flower, smile, and ask them about their day. It amazed me the reactions of these girls (and yes, I was one of them that year) the way their faces suddenly lit up, and they took the flower with a smile, and were from that moment immune to the gloomy all-consuming "single awareness" feeling. Why should they feel bad that they were single? What did it matter if they received one of the coveted pink delivery notes which announced a few flowers tied with ribbon, or a special card from a loved one, or any number of wonderful things that arrived for the lucky few?

The girls who held purple carnations knew that they were still human after all. Love didn't necessarily mean having a boyfriend to make out with over lunch. Kindness and compassion went on, regardless of the day. A box of lemon heads, a note scribbled on the back of a receipt, a smile, a phone call on my birthday, a courageous text admitting a crush, a burned CD, a letter, a hand to steady weak legs while ice skating, an embrace to strengthen a broken heart after a bad day...THESE. THESE are the most powerful expressions of human emotion that far outshine, at least in my memories, anything bought with money or compliments.

So when you're making arrangements this weekend for the Big Day, consider purple carnations. Close your wallet, put those corny candles and rose petals away, and do something that you won't regret months later when you're still paying off the bills for that night out that you'll never remember. Put some meaning back into the words "I Love You."