Attitude toward panhandlers influenced by the Pope
Pope Francis and I disagree on many things, but in this area he has converted me
I’d barely stepped onto the Main last week when the first panhandler hit me up, a strung-out, bearded guy holding out a baseball cap and asking for “spare” change.
No sooner had I handed him a loonie than a skinny, tattooed guy popped out of a doorway, looking for donations, and I knew from experience there were more like him ahead.
It was like running a gauntlet, a festival of panhandlers along the street.
I was about to skirt Skinny Tattooed Guy when I remembered something. Then I handed him a loonie, as I’ve done more often recently, since getting a sermon from my panhandling spiritual guide: His Holiness, Pope Francis.
It’s odd for a Jewish guy like me to take advice from the Pope, because as my grandfather said: “I don’t know the pontiff from yontif (a Jewish holiday).”
I did spend many childhood years singing Jesus Loves Me at the Montreal Protestant School Board, but I don’t think that counts in papist circles.
Pope Francis and I disagree on many things, but at heart I like this pontiff, so here’s how the Pope converted me. Like everyone in town, I run into plenty of panhandlers.
There’s the guy parked outside Schwartz’s lately with a sign saying: “Broke and Ugly.” There are two guys (and a dog) doing split shifts outside my SAQ, where I’m an easier mark coming out with bottles than going in.
There’s the homeless guy who sleeps in my ATM booth and leaps up to open the door, and the longtime “toll booth” on Duluth Ave., where we passing motorists are all asked to pay.
Lately, there’s a more idealistic addition: an army of chirpy young volunteers downtown who accost you at red lights, saying: “Are you against puppy mills?” Meet their eyes and you’ll spend 20 minutes being implored for a monthly, or hourly, donation to their organizations.
Even if you’re a soft touch, there are too many hard-luck stories to give to everyone without pushing a wheelbarrow of coins.
Giving money on the street is a personal decision, and we all bring our own values.
Some people don’t give, period. They figure most street people will use it to buy booze, or shoot up, and they’d rather not help.
Others give selectively, applying some intuitive personal means test: Is the panhandler wounded-looking, or handicapped, or a talented métro musician who might otherwise have become a concert star?
My own rules: I never give to people wearing nicer clothing than me, or to panhandlers carrying cellphones.
I avoid organized-looking scams, like the guys up near the Metropolitan holding cardboard signs saying: “POOR AND HOMELESS! NEED FOOD! HELP!” When one leaves, they pass the sign to the next guy and the next, like office shifts — with, I suspect, a ringleader who takes a huge cut.
But I’ve always had a soft spot for elderly people with hard lives written on their faces. Often they look too old to find work or change their lives.
I also give to those offering something in exchange: a harmonica tune, a homeless centre newspaper like L’itinéraire, or just a clever sign like “I take Visa and MasterCard.”
I rarely give to squeegee kids out to dirty my clean windshield. But I don’t ignore them, or any panhandlers; they’re not fire hydrants.
I make eye contact, or I say “not today,” because in different circumstances we could all be them.
Yet my relationship with panhandlers has been changing a lot in recent years.
When I was younger I’d drop a coin in any old guy’s cup, but over the years there were fewer and fewer old guys out there.
Then I realized I was the one getting older, so fewer panhandlers seemed old to me. At that rate I would eventually give only to Methuselah.
I’d also started judging people more: Does this guy really want that “sandwich at Wendy’s,” or just another drink? Is this old woman honest, or hustling me? I felt like a government welfare inspector.
Then last March I read an interview with Pope Francis talking about panhandlers. His message was simple. Give them money and don’t worry about it. Giving to someone begging is “always right.”
What if the person uses it for a glass of wine instead of food? the Pope was asked. He replied: “If a glass of wine is the only happiness he has in life, that’s OK. … Ask yourself, what ‘happiness’ do you seek in secret?”
Hmm, I thought, if the Pope could pay for the odd panhandler’s glass of wine, so could I.
I know it’s better to give to charities that help street people, and I do. But since the Pope spoke, I’m a softer touch — and I feel better for it.
So if I ever happen to slip you a toonie on the street, don’t thank me. Thank the Pope.