“Spare any change?”
We tried panhandling on Mulberry Street in the heart of Little Italy, a street with fancy Mafioso restaurants, espresso cafés, obligatory for tourists. People of all kinds, colors, some Europeans, Asian visitors passed us by repeatedly, embarrassed by our presence, annoyed, in some cases hostile. No one looked us in the eye. No one said, “Sorry, I can’t help you out.” I caught a wince now & then, slight recoiling. Were we junkies? AIDS victims? Pathetic? Anathema? Weird? Dangerous even? No engagement, no curiosity even. Cool chill up the spine. One of the former homeless we’d met said that was the most painful thing, it was just that: people don’t look you in the eye, flinch as you hold out a hand. No human contact, that was the stab, forget money, you weren’t accorded basic human contact. Invisible to them. Subhuman. An ancient broken man sat on the street down the block from us, rattling a few pathetic coins in a tin cup. . . . A centuries-old sound. . . . How long, Lord, how long?
We slept nearby on the cold pavement of Hester Street. 15 of us, 2 of us women having decided to stick together rather than brave the city shelters, where men & women were segregated, TB raged. We’d been told you need to sleep with your shoes on so they won’t get stolen, and keep an eye open for sexual assault. Who could sleep?
Who could sleep on Hester Street? We gathered cardboard boxes from Chinatown, some with plastic peanut pellets, others with rice paper stuffing. Again we had the advice of savvy homeless, people who’d been out there years. Get the boxes in Chinatown. And we fashioned our cardboard condo. The street was cold. The cold seeped into your bones. What was that omnious sound passing by? Aggressive, merely drunk, indifferent? Was someone going to bash you on the head? Crush you in a box? Start a fight? Tell you to leave? Cops stopped to check on us their lights blinding. Garbage trucks raged like rutting elephants all night. . . . . . . up & down the street. . . . . up & down. You slept on a cold slab of a bed, you lay on psychological tenterhooks. You waited for dawn so you could walk to the Bowery Mission. Even sitting through 2 hours of a Born Again Bible-thumping service in order to get a little breakfast & weak tea in your belly was starting to look good. You visualized the food. You could wash your face & hands there, use the toilet. Rinse your mouth. You were feeling the call & rise of your animal nature. Survival. You were thinking of yourself, your urgent need to keep alive. Could anyone take that away from you? Night after night like this would you go mad?
April 1992
on retreat with Zen teacher Bernard
Glassman Sensei & other friends, N.Y.C.