Hatred

It's nearly midnight and I'm walking through the park to get home. It's quiet. Not so warm. I don't notice the hairs standing up on the back of my neck as I walk; because I'm a little distracted. I'm daydreaming. I'm already half-asleep.

And then I hear a click.

"Give me all your money!" he says. I feel the metal pressed against my head. He hates me. But not because I've done anything. Because society has failed him, and he's angry. The gun to my head is an outward projection of the anger he feels.

And so I turn. Because I know this man. It's the same homeless man that I passed the ten dollars to months earlier. He's my neighbor. And he's broken.

Somehow, the serenity in me disables his fear. He allows me to turn, because, more than anything else -- he wants someone to care. And he's willing to kill for it.

"I've helped you before," I say, as I slowly motion to him that I'm going into my purse. I think he half-believes me. He definitely recognizes me. We see each other on a weekly basis. He probably has built up some grande fantasy of how great my life is; and how I'm undeserving of it.

I smile. I'm not afraid of him; only that the gun will go off accidentally at this point. I make a signal with my eyes and ask him to pull the gun back a bit. He takes a moment to assess, and then does.

"Look," I tell him. "I don't really have a lot of money," I say as I pull out my wallet. "But, I do have some gift cards -- and you're more than welcome to them if you like. I rifle through and find an H & M card, and hand it to him. "There's not much on it," I say "but you might be able to buy a shirt or something."

He takes the card, and puts the gun away.

I try to make a joke as I dig for my change purse; "Bad day?"

He nods.

I don't know why I wasn't afraid. Maybe it was the recognition of a universal truth; that he was fighting hard to survive -- like the lions in Africa; or the Khmer Rouge. I often think that people don't want to be broken. No one chooses to hurt -- or be hurt. It's just an ugly byproduct of life. This man wasn't born sullen, or angry. I'm sure as a child he ran around and played. I've never really seen a child that doesn't laugh when they're an infant.

Something broke him. And no one wants to help him out of it. At this point, he doesn't have the strength to help himself. He's at a loss.

As I pull out my change purse to dig out a few more coins for him, he turns and says to me in a whisper; "Why couldn't I hurt you?"

I reach out my hand, and let the coins drop into his; and say the only thing that makes sense to me, "Because you believe that I am not hurting you."

I could have gotten more philosophical -- but I really didn't think he was in the mood. He needed money. No one was helping him. And, he got desperate. As I walked away, I could tell that his hatred had subsided for the moment. He disappeared back into the shadows.

I wasn't angry. More sad. I think it's shameful that we let people get so desperate. And even more shameful, when we react piously to their desperate attempts for help.