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August 6, 2006

Let a smile ...



By Michelle Martin

“Let me give you something.”
Not words I’m used to hearing from people on the street, especially people who appear to be homeless and hungry, not to mention soaking wet following a sudden summer downpour.

This particular man stood on a busy corner holding my umbrella—or, rather, his umbrella, which I had just given him. He looked elderly, with gray hair and several missing teeth, although he may have been younger than he looked; street life can age people prematurely.

He had approached me while I waited to cross the street and asked for money. I refused, politely. “I’m sorry, no,” making an effort to look him in the eye.

Of course, I did have a few dollars—less than 10—tucked into my wallet, but my wallet was squirreled away in my bag, and I didn’t want to dig through all my things to pull it out. I didn’t want the interaction with him to last that long. That’s when he looked at my umbrella, a pale green collapsible model that I’d bought on sale at the drugstore in a rainy day not three weeks earlier. It was folded loosely and dripping wet. As a result, I was mostly dry, except for my feet.

“Could you spare your umbrella then?” he persisted. He persisted, but he had half turned away before I answered.

“You really want my umbrella?” I asked, with images of the half-dozen or so other umbrellas I had at home flashing into my mind. None so new, most with a bent spoke or missing strap, but still serviceable.

He turned back and said, “Yes; yes I do.”

So I gave it to him and prepared to move on as he thanked me.

But that wasn’t enough. That’s when he said, “Stop. Let me give you something.”

He gave me his name first—Ray. Then he gave me some advice. “Walk around with your head high and a smile on your face. You’d be surprised what that can do.”

Then, while I was waiting for the light to change, he walked away, leaving me to reflect that his advice, as far as it went, was sound, and probably more valuable than the umbrella.

I’m not a person who smiles naturally. When I’m thinking, I must have a scowl on my face, given the number of times my husband asks why I’m mad when I’m not. But when I do smile, I find that most of the world smiles back. What’s more, when I start smiling, I feel happier and find it easier to keep it going.

Like most people, I think, I feel sorry for the panhandlers who ask for money on the street, but also uncomfortable and vulnerable. If I say no, I feel guilty (“When I was hungry …”), but if I say yes, I often feel like I was an easy mark. I’ve had men—men who have asked me for money—tell me I should be more mindful of my safety when I handed them change.

Somehow, it’s different if I can offer them food directly, a piece of fruit from my lunch, the leftovers from a restaurant meal that could feed me for another two days. It was also different with the umbrella. I didn’t feel threatened when he asked for it; he didn’t seem to expect to get it. But it was something I could give that would help keep him dry, something he needed more than I did.

So yes, when I walked away, it was with my head held high and a smile on my face.



Martin, a Catholic New World staff writer, can be reached at [email protected].


Michelle Martin is a Catholic New World staff writer.