Asking for Help

During a recent trip to Vegas I was approached by an obviously pregnant woman. As she spoke I quickly concluded she was asking for money and before she finished her question I was answering her. I rarely carry cash, so it was easy to say, “No.”  She went on to explain she wanted help getting something to eat because she was pregnant.  I walked away apologizing and on the way back to the hotel I remembered I uncharacteristically had $20 in my wallet.  Immediately I felt awful; I felt like I was another version of myself.  I jumped so quickly to a conclusion, I never heard her question.  I didn’t take time to truly see her or to listen to her.  Had I done that, I would have remembered I had money in my pocket and I would have taken the time to buy her dinner.  But even if I didn’t have cash on me, I could have paid for food with my debit card. 

By the time I processed these thoughts I was back at my hotel and the moment was lost.  As I walked through the hotel lobby I was surrounded by reminders that I was in the city of excess, and my regret grew deeper. I took an inventory of the abundance in my life, a loving partner, a comfortable home, more food than I can eat, a regular salary, a supportive family, a warm, safe bed in a hotel that by my standards was luxurious.   A couple months later I still have to be reminded to be gentle with myself.  It’s hard to be forgiving when, at least for one night, I could have made sure that woman in Vegas had dinner.  It takes a lot of courage to ask for help.

I believe the universe has a way of holding up mirrors so I can see my reflection and when I look long enough to notice, I don’t always recognize myself.  I try to be mindful of how I move through the day, being present for each moment.  I don’t want to miss opportunities to connect with another person.  When I drift from these intentions, I am often offered gentle reminders so I can get back on track.  I just have to pay attention.

The next evening I was walking around Vegas when I noticed 3 teenage girls holding cardboard signs next to one another, telling a story that read like a nightmare.  Their cousins, (two brothers) were killed within a year of each other.  One of them fighting in the war and the other was shot and killed in Chicago while attending a funeral.  When I lived in Chicago I worked in the largest housing projects with families whose lives were impacted daily by violence.  As a result of this experience and many others, I’ve learned the violence that affects so many young men who are black and Latino affects me too.  When I met the mother of these two young men, I found out what she most wanted was to be heard.  She shared with me that her son was shot within a couple of weeks of when the young girl, who attended the President’s inauguration, was also killed. I got the sense she couldn’t help but feel her son’s life was overlooked, even devalued by it's insignificance in the large scale of violence in Chicago.  We exchanged emails because we were no longer strangers.  You experience a kind of immediate intimacy when discussing the death of a child.

People often tell me they choose not to stop when someone is asking for help on the street because they never know if someone “is lying.” The truth in the details doesn’t matter to me. It’s enough that someone is asking.  I believe if someone feels so much desperation that she turns to strangers for help, then it’s my responsibility to show up with compassion, even when that’s all I have to offer.  I wonder if people who make up stories to ask for help have just been told too many times... they aren’t enough. If you are told over and over "you aren’t enough," eventually you learn to make something up and hope others will pay attention. Or maybe the truth is simply too painful to speak.  Telling a made up story cloaked with your own pain might just make asking for help bearable.