Lately there have been a few news stories about Lyndon Johnson's War on Poverty now that it have reached its 50th milestone. Until the moment I decided to write that sentence, it had never dawned on me that its advent coincides with Black History Month. The convergence may be wholly accidental but it underscores something I've observed for a long time, that poverty and African-American-ness are used interchangeably as synonyms.
But, instead of exploring that today -- don't have the chops for a long, spit-hurling screed -- I'll tell two stories. One involves me; the other, a friend:
I was in New York a few days ago. As is true of my recent visits they are brief, specific and about business. The day wasn't bitter cold but cold enough, so I was bundled up with my ersatz hunter's cap, mile-long scarf, big-collared winter jacket, and old Timberlands. Perfect for the weather and normal for me. As far as I was concerned, I didn't look any different that day than usual. I should also mention that if it's not overcast I wear shades outdoors year-round; you can't see me seeing you. That day, for whatever reason(s), people broke through my barriers -- the shades, the bundling -- and talked to me. I was walking through the long station that is Courthouse Square. Years ago you'd leave Grand Central on the 7 heading east, cross the East River, get a paper transfer, walk down a rickety steel and wood staircase, turn a corner and then present your transfer at the turnstiles for the G train. It was a pain in the ass to execute and if you didn't do it often, you'd wind up wandering up and down the street looking for the subway entrance. Some time (probably after I left the city) it all got connected and now you can transfer, under protection of a glass pavilion, between the 7 and the G which connect Manhattan, Queens and North Brooklyn.
I was heading back to Grand Central, glad that the meeting had gone well and was brief. While marvelling (once again) about the ease of transfer, I was thinking that I could catch one of many trains before rush hour, so wasn't in any particular hurry. Perhaps I was in a good mood, perhaps pleased with myself. Either way I was free and heading home. Next thing I know a skinny kid in a hoodie covered by a light jacket asks me if I can get him something to eat.
And I say, as I have in the past, would you like me to buy you a meal? And he nods yes and I crook my head to indicate that I'll follow him and up the escalator, outside the station, around the corner, and across the street (underneath the BQE) we go. Not a word. We stop at the corner. There's a bodega in front of us and a diner to our right. He enters the bodega and goes through the store, returning to the counter with a can of iced tea. I thought you wanted something to eat? I didn't see where. I'm struck by his candor and lack of greed. This kid -- maybe 14 -- is hungry. Hungry. Grey from malnutrition and cold. You don't hang out in a heatless pavilion in February begging for food if you don't have to. We go outside. I point to the diner. There? I point. He's ambivalent. He either can't see it because he needs glasses, or he doesn't want to go there because he has never in his life sat down and ordered from a menu, or he can't read. Or all three.
The intersection before us gathers like Five Points. We cross two streets to another bodega. Almost every corner store worth its salt has a deli counter. Why the first one we went into didn't is a mystery. But this one does and he orders a Philly cheese steak. I stand aside as he luxuriates in the power of having and exercising choice. The clerk bags the sandwich and offers it to me because I'm the one with the wallet open. I turn to the boy; for a moment the clerk is confused, but I wait for him to figure it out. The boy steps up and the clerk gives him his food. The boy thanks me and because of necessity and because when you're poor you learn to abdicate your dignity quickly and often he asks, in front of everyone, the important ask, the one for train fare to get home. Oh. Sure. I say, handing him a few bills. Then I leave.
But, instead of exploring that today -- don't have the chops for a long, spit-hurling screed -- I'll tell two stories. One involves me; the other, a friend:
I was in New York a few days ago. As is true of my recent visits they are brief, specific and about business. The day wasn't bitter cold but cold enough, so I was bundled up with my ersatz hunter's cap, mile-long scarf, big-collared winter jacket, and old Timberlands. Perfect for the weather and normal for me. As far as I was concerned, I didn't look any different that day than usual. I should also mention that if it's not overcast I wear shades outdoors year-round; you can't see me seeing you. That day, for whatever reason(s), people broke through my barriers -- the shades, the bundling -- and talked to me. I was walking through the long station that is Courthouse Square. Years ago you'd leave Grand Central on the 7 heading east, cross the East River, get a paper transfer, walk down a rickety steel and wood staircase, turn a corner and then present your transfer at the turnstiles for the G train. It was a pain in the ass to execute and if you didn't do it often, you'd wind up wandering up and down the street looking for the subway entrance. Some time (probably after I left the city) it all got connected and now you can transfer, under protection of a glass pavilion, between the 7 and the G which connect Manhattan, Queens and North Brooklyn.
I was heading back to Grand Central, glad that the meeting had gone well and was brief. While marvelling (once again) about the ease of transfer, I was thinking that I could catch one of many trains before rush hour, so wasn't in any particular hurry. Perhaps I was in a good mood, perhaps pleased with myself. Either way I was free and heading home. Next thing I know a skinny kid in a hoodie covered by a light jacket asks me if I can get him something to eat.
And I say, as I have in the past, would you like me to buy you a meal? And he nods yes and I crook my head to indicate that I'll follow him and up the escalator, outside the station, around the corner, and across the street (underneath the BQE) we go. Not a word. We stop at the corner. There's a bodega in front of us and a diner to our right. He enters the bodega and goes through the store, returning to the counter with a can of iced tea. I thought you wanted something to eat? I didn't see where. I'm struck by his candor and lack of greed. This kid -- maybe 14 -- is hungry. Hungry. Grey from malnutrition and cold. You don't hang out in a heatless pavilion in February begging for food if you don't have to. We go outside. I point to the diner. There? I point. He's ambivalent. He either can't see it because he needs glasses, or he doesn't want to go there because he has never in his life sat down and ordered from a menu, or he can't read. Or all three.
The intersection before us gathers like Five Points. We cross two streets to another bodega. Almost every corner store worth its salt has a deli counter. Why the first one we went into didn't is a mystery. But this one does and he orders a Philly cheese steak. I stand aside as he luxuriates in the power of having and exercising choice. The clerk bags the sandwich and offers it to me because I'm the one with the wallet open. I turn to the boy; for a moment the clerk is confused, but I wait for him to figure it out. The boy steps up and the clerk gives him his food. The boy thanks me and because of necessity and because when you're poor you learn to abdicate your dignity quickly and often he asks, in front of everyone, the important ask, the one for train fare to get home. Oh. Sure. I say, handing him a few bills. Then I leave.
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