Moved… January 29, 2013

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“It’s a scam!”

She was determined to inform me of my pending idiocy by interrupting a conversation I was having with a young father and his little daughter out in front of a Wal-Mart. The two of them had stopped me as I was exiting the establishment, explaining that they were without a home and needed some money for food.

The lady who had decided to interject her opinion into the situation glared at the pair begging for money and punctuated her warning by saying to the father, “Why don’t you get a job?”

Fortunately, she glided away on her magic carpet of self-righteousness. The little girl hung her head and the father rose to his feet as if he was going to follow. I held my hand up, motioning to him to stop.

“Now, where were we?” I said, calming their spirits.

Here’s the truth, my dear friends. I don’t care if it’s a scam.

I don’t care if the drunk on the street is getting a buck off of me to buy the cheapest Ripple in the local liquor store. I don’t care if the fellow with the elaborate story concerning his broken-down car, which needs a five dollar repair, is just a way to boost cash from me. The transactions which happen between human beings are not investments and therefore do not require brokers. It is not necessary for us to determine the validity of the need.

In this country we are continually stumping about the need for compassion. But you see, compassion is completely impossible if you’ve closed all the doors to your human heart which might allow you to be moved.

Americans do not lack compassion–we have just been trained to be cynical and are nearly incapable of being moved. Honestly, folks, if you’re not moved, you will never be able to tap the root of your compassion. Every day of my life is that pursuit — working very hard to unload the boxes of my burdens, prejudices, anger and frustration so that compassion can move freely through my human space.

I occasionally will purposely get up very early in the morning, before dawn, to see if I still have the tenderness to be moved by the rising sun.

I will sit in my van and listen to music that gentles my spirit to allow the tears to flow freely.

I practice being moved because without that training, I am vacant of compassion.

Here are two sentences I complete in every situation:

1. “If it were me…” Honestly I did not see a man and his young daughter in front of the store. No, I saw myself thirty-eight years ago, having just been evicted from an apartment and not knowing where to go, desperately needing someone to purchase a pint of blackberries I had picked, granting me a few quarters to buy bread and bologna. I recalled that sensation and it moved me. Candidly, I will never be moved by the plight of others unless I am able to insert myself into the situation.

2. “If I don’t…” In other words, if I don’t fill the gap, do I really think there is someone possessing more generosity than me, who will come along and help these people out with something other than useless advice about needful employment? I often realize I cannot trust my society to be compassionate. The burden is mine. So therefore I have deed and title to the blessing.

• If it were me…
• If I don’t…

Run those two through your mind before you carelessly walk away. You’ll stop worrying about whether things are scams and become more concerned about faltering over an opportunity to be truly human.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

Old Dogs … January 17, 2013

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The old dog scampered, skittered and slid her way to the door to greet me, depositing a dribble of pee on the ground as a symbol of her devotion. Then she stood at my feet, blocking my entrance, until I was able to shuffle away with her trailing behind, wheezing, panting, trying to keep up with her favorite person–the one who’s the filler of the bowl, the patter of the head and the distributor of treats.

She perched herself in front of me for review and also for affirmation of stroking and petting. Honestly, she offers little in the way of reciprocal affection, other than the unfailing stare of adoration.

Suddenly, as if on cue, the old dog turned and ran towards the glass door, seeing her reflection and being haunted by a mythical competitor. As dinner is served, she made her way to my side, offering me her undivided attention as I consumed my evening repast while she begged for morsels from my portion.

She remained totally involved until the last dish was cleared and conversation ensued. As I began to share my findings of the day, stories of my experiences and little anecdotes of blessing and hassle with the room, the old dog found her way to my feet and lay down in a great big heap, expressing her indifference for the glories of conversational interchange.

In no time at all, she was asleep–but her presence was still made known through snores, which rattled the room, farts, which aired her incessant fragrance, and snorts, exhibiting the effects of an ongoing, contentious struggle with a rival dream-beagle.

She is an old dog–not terribly interested in most of the life going on around her, but she still finds a way to wiggle in to acquire her needs and establish her worth. She is an interesting combination of companion and aggravation, depending on the situation, and even proximity.

Old dogs are everywhere. Old dogs have already established the maturity of their turf and only occasionally will gnaw on your shoe in flashbacks to puppyhood.

You see, it’s not so much that old dogs can’t learn new tricks. It’s just that old dogs are so challenged by their old tricks that they still think they’re new.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

Hey, Buddy — September 28, 2011

12 23 OBOE THEME

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I like to sit out in parking lots, roll down my windows, open my sun roof and work on ideas, writings, scripts or whatever is on my present platter, while enjoying the surrounding sunshine and people passing by. I don’t like offices; they sniff of officious. Desks and computers are sterile. or me, just a pad, a pen and surrounding life is a nice atmosphere for creativity.

I was doing so yesterday in Richmond, Virginia, when I was approached by a gentleman who had both a need and an agenda. “Hey, buddy!  Nice car! Is it a Mercedes? How ya’ doin’?”

I don’t know exactly what to do with a flurry of questions.  What do you address first? But I did immediately know two things: this was a guy who was trying to be very friendly because he was going through a hard trial. He wanted something from me.

Now, people in need don’t bother me. Honestly, individuals who have an agenda are pretty obvious, so they don’t particularly trouble me either. But I am not fond of people who have both a need and an agenda. I told him my car was a Korean knockoff of a Mercedes called an Amante.  

He didn’t even hear me; he was in full need and agenda.  Here was his speech:

“Listen, man. I’m a Vietnam veteran and I’m on my way to work and my truck broke down. I left my wallet at my house. I believe in God and I know God’s going to take care of me, so I was wondering if you could give me a lift back to my house so I could get my wallet, so I could get some gas for my truck, which is a big truck, so it takes a lot of gasoline, so that I could get to work, so I can take care of my family, which I love very much.”

Amazingly, he said it in one breath–yet with no real emotional inflection.

Let’s look at the story. 

• First, he said he was a Vietnam veteran. The Vietnam war ended forty years ago–which means the youngest people who would have fought in that war would be sixty.  He wasn’t a day over forty-two.
• Secondly, it was 10:15 in the morning, so he probably wasn’t on his way to work. 
• And there was no truck in sight, so the story about needing gasoline for his vehicle may have been a little bit contrived.
• “He left his wallet at his house” is pretty unlikely–although I was unsure why he wanted me to put him into my car to take him to another location. (A pretty good rule: don’t follow a potentially homeless person to his alleged home.)
• For some reason, these individuals with the combo of “need” and “agenda” always demand that you understand that they believe in God, they’re God-fearing, or God is with them, or God is their savior, or God … whatever.  I’ve never met a person who is homeless who doesn’t have a deep, abiding, verbal faith in the Almighty.  It isn’t really a great testimony for religious participation, even though David says in the Psalms, “I’ve never seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging for bread.”  Sorry, David.  I have.  Actually, most of the people I have encountered who are without sustenance will tell you that God is King of the Universe–as they beg you for a dollar or two to pick up some of that good stuff for themselves.
• And adding the final feather in the cap of his spiel, he mentions “family.”  “Family” seems to be the great elixir in our country, intoxicating us into believing that we are loving and caring people. We must realize, though, that to create a family only requires that you make children, which demands a bodily function between two consenting adults. It’s not making a family that’s special. It’s whether you can make the process meaningful to not only yourselves, but to the world around you.

I am not offended by people who are poor.  As Jesus said, “the poor you have with you always.  Do what you can for them.” I am just fed up with the politics of ANYTHING. I certainly don’t like the politics of politics–where destroying your opposition is more important than opposing what destroys us.  I certainly despise the politics of religion, where placing a candle in its sacred place is more meaningful than teaching the congregation to be the light of the world. I hate the politics of corporations, which possess no sense for the common good, but only view a line that runs at the bottom of the barrel. And I don’t like the politics of poverty. I don’t like it that a man has to lie to me about his situation just to coerce a little money out of me to make it through his day. I don’t like the fact that he has to cajole me into listening to him by using buzz words instead of admitting that for whatever reason, right now his life sucks, and he needs me to squeeze off a few singles his way.

I understand the politics of poverty. I realize that most folks think that homeless people are lazy, trifling and have chosen to be impoverished. So if the unfortunate don’t come up with a good story line, they will not only go without and be disregarded, but also will be looked upon as common, meaningless and trashy.

I just think it is our responsibility to attack politics wherever we see it. I am tired of the phrase, “Well, that’s just the way the world works.” No, my friend, that’s the way someone decided the world works a long time ago, and because nobody argued with him in that moment, and many cowards have followed since, we have ended up with a system that is insufficient to our needs and irreverent to the requirements of others.

My friend closed his little spiel yesterday by saying, “If you’re going to be here for an hour, I’ll come back and give you double repayment for what you give me.”

It was at this point that I stopped him.

“Stop it,” I said. “Let’s not do the dance. You and I both know you don’t have a job, there is no truck, if you have a wallet it has the addresses of local food banks in it, and whatever family you have needs just as much help as you do. Let me tell you, friend, I’m going to give you some money, but not because you came up with a great story or because in your mind you shot Viet Cong. I’m going to give you some money because you crossed my path, and if I don’t I would never be able to explain to myself or God why I chose this moment to be so damned stingy.”

He tried to object but I just held up my hand and he realized there was no need.  He nodded his head and I pulled out some money from my pocket, which I carry at all times for just such occasions. If you don’t carry a few singles around for the lost individuals who happen your way, then you might just be tempted to pretend that there’s nothing you can do. I gave him the money and he was on his way.

As he was leaving, I proffered one final thought.

“You see, brother,” I said, “Now we can actually talk about God and it’ll mean something.”  He smiled and disppeared into the surrounding day.

Here’s the truth: politics creates the need that makes people feel they must have an agenda to get what they want.

I, for one, am tired of it. I refuse to participate. And I am not ashamed when I run across those in need–as long as they don’t try to pretend they’re somebody they really aren’t.