A beggar sits at the northeast corner of my block. He’s been there, off and on, ever since I moved into my apartment a year and a half ago. The first time I saw him I thought it could turn into that kind of buddy relationship where I’d greet him every day by putting a dollar in his cup and he’d grin at me while commenting on the weather. Then I thought about how inconvenient that would be in case he turned out to be a sicko/wino/creepy guy who follows me home every now and then, and how I could use that dollar much more for my morning coffee. Therefore, I decided to just ignore him from the start. Better not get involved at all, I told myself as I averted my eyes, than to have to explain to him why I take a detour around the block every now and then.

I needn’t have been so callous though by exclaiming “I got a new job!” on the phone while walking by him a few weeks ago.

Although I didn’t say it right in front of him (because I caught myself just in time), I’m pretty sure he heard me. Though I had every right to feel proud about the development, and it wasn’t my fault the timing was off, it still felt like I was subliminally rubbing it in. I had spent weeks applying for every possible position I could remotely see myself doing, my dad had even gotten me to consider working as a paralegal in the hopes that it would persuade me to go to law school; but the beggar didn’t know that. From his POV, there I was implying that he needed to get off his ass.

I’ve always had a thing for the homeless. As a teenager I ran away from home once after a God-awful fight with my stepfather. I spent the week with the teenage punks on the street, who I thought were so cool with their piercings and black eyeliner, and though I was kind of afraid of their dogs, I came to understand the necessity of their protection. I soon realized I was in over my head when I stood guard while my friends were shooting up in the public restrooms.

I put my investigative skills to good use while in the midst of their world, and found out that most kids don’t like being on the street, but it was better than the option they had at home. I had run away from an argument; some had run away from much more painful things. I was lucky to have been able to go back. Some didn’t know what had happened to their home, and doubted they would be let in if they could find it. That doesn’t excuse their drug abuse or their lack of motivation to find a job, yet it explains how some people were just dealt a shitty card in life, and they just learn how to play it.

Most of us don’t count the things we take for granted as the beautiful gifts they are, and I’m not just talking about health and home. The ability to love is one thing. How often have shattered hearts healed themselves, and loved again so much stronger than the first time around? The ability to read is another. Imagine going through life not being able to read the maps that point you in the right direction. Having a bright outlook on the future. However much life may suck right now, there is still the possibility that it will get better. Even a fraction of that possibility isn’t granted to everyone.

I often feel the need to apologize for the privileges I’ve received. I’m a middle class white girl who went to private school and lives in the Village. I can afford braces to straighten my teeth and glasses to fix my eyes, and I buy organic food because it makes me feel better. The closest I get to fast food is when I accompany my boyfriend to Subway where he gets a half sub and I eat a cookie. I get my news from Drudge and Gawker and have the Sunday Times delivered to my door. I go running to kill some time but also to look svelte in my $200 Malia Mills bikini.

I apologize for my life by volunteering the spare time I have (courtesy of not having to work two jobs) to organizations that have the clout to make an impact. Next week I start working as a literacy tutor to adults in Manhattan. I’ll be teaching people twice my age how to spell their name. This weekend I’m running a 5K on a Sunday morning to raise awareness for lung cancer (you can pledge here). And I’m looking into assisting the blind, and working at a Soup Kitchen. Perhaps if I continue to overexert myself, I can at least pretend I am making a difference, when in reality I am just trying to make up for something that is out of my control.

I wish I could tell the beggar that sits on the north east corner of my block that I don’t mean to ignore him out of arrogance, or ignorance. I avert my eyes because even with all my philanthropic efforts, I still can’t relate.

Last 5 posts by Cynthia Patricia

• Baby Cravings - June 13th, 2007
• So Jealous - June 8th, 2007
• Vindicated - April 20th, 2007
• Sister Sister - April 6th, 2007
• Revelations 101 - March 30th, 2007