I’ll be the judge of that

Well, here I am. On the west coast. I’ve never been here at this time of year. The “not really winter” time and the “not really spring” time of the year. The city I’ve grown to love, and consider my second home, seems dirty, grey and crowded—without promise. On the “correct- change-only #20 bus,” coming back from downtown to the apartment, I peer out the window at folks who look as if they’ve spent their lives on the streets and I feel frightened and grateful for what I have. A close friend has warned me to keep my handbag close and avoid any kind of contact with “street people and panhandlers.” I kept my bag close but, wasn’t sure if I could avoid contact in a crowded city. I wasn’t sure if I could be the judge of who I shouldn’t be contacting.

As it is at home, in the County, I never know what will inspire or provoke me to write. When I’m travelling I’m always afraid my point of view (and I do have one) will be lost if it isn’t somehow connected to a County issue. Although Vancouver is just a hit “send” away, this particular trip it seems like a world removed.

Maybe it’s the weather. While we are unlikely to see panhandlers in the County, it is a very real dimension of life here. I start off worrying if I’ve chosen the correct term, panhandling, or should I have written something more politically correct. Perhaps, the more dignified term is alternative income seeking or hand-to-mouth clerks. I think Services Canada has an occupational code for it. Don’t we seem overly concerned with the correctness of naming that which we know is an issue, but have a perceptual handicap in real life? Vancouver is fraught with the real life. On one hand, politically-speaking, Vancouverites consider themselves socially just. The world is reminded of this “fact” on a regular basis. To hear it told, Vancouverites apparently invented social justice. In spite of the pronouncement, almost every street is populated with people who are “socially incorrect.” But, who am I to judge? Maybe my well-protected spare change won’t be a down payment on anyone’s next meal, it could be the fuel for another kind of fire and, how would I know? I’m from The County.

On the walk from my bus stop to the apartment I spot a kid, maybe 15 or 16 years old, begging. He’s dressed in clean designer jeans and a clean jacket. He’s sending a text on his Smart Phone, his mouth is full of expensive orthodontia. The warning to keep my bag close, makes me skeptical of his need. I decide to hedge my bets and ask him when his dad will be by to pick him up and how he’s spent his allowance. He calls me a pig, followed by a silvery grin and “have a nice day, rich-bitch-whore.” Indeed. But, who was I to judge his circumstances? It may well have been his very first day on the street and Dad wouldn’t be dropping by anytime soon. I held my bag tightly and moved along. What if I gave the kid money and he really didn’t need it? What if his Dad thought he was at school getting extra help with math and would be meeting him just before dinner? That’s all it was for me. I’d judged him, my way.

Less than a block away, three street-weary men are sitting. Their jeans might have been clean, designer offerings at one time—years ago. Three men with, perhaps, three teeth amongst them. If there has ever been dental care in their lives it is no longer evident. They seem to be sharing the dirty ball cap in front of them, seeded with a few coins. I stop, only long enough to drop what’s left of my “correct change.” I am heaped with blessings and the promise of continued good fortune in my life of luxury. They seem hungry in the hungriest sense of the word. But, who am I to judge?

In the next two blocks I wonder if I was, indeed, the one to be the judge of those lives. First day on the street or otherwise. Just who the hell was I to judge who would get my spare and ever-so-correct change and how did I get to this point in my life.