The Last Sunday Morning in New Orleans

The morning of September 12 I woke up earlier than I had planned. Since our flight out of New Orleans wasn’t supposed to leave until one in the afternoon, I had envisioned sleeping in a little, and then taking my sweet time trying to find some extra space in the suitcase to fit all the little knick-knacks I bought the previous four days.

It wasn’t meant to be. I woke up bright and early at 6am, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t go back to sleep. Since my sister was still peacefully cuddled up in the arms of Morpheus, and I didn’t want to wake her up by turning on the TV, I decided to call it a night; I got dressed and went out.

The city was in a moment of transition. While some die-hard partiers were still lingering at the doors of bars, they were gradually being outnumbered by the growing crowd of daytime folks, busy getting their beloved city ready for another day.

I walked for miles. With coffee cup in hand, I walked down Esplanade Avenue, passed the flea market where a few vendors had already started setting out their goods, and spilled onto the boardwalk coasting the Mississippi river. I passed by a small group of homeless men just waking up to a new day, and smiled when I saw one of them shaving in front of a fountain, while he held a small mirror in front of his face. I walked a bit longer and then sat on a bench facing the river. As I got ready to take a sip of coffee from the Styrofoam cup, I heard a moan. Thinking I had maybe just imagined it, I took another sip of coffee, only to hear moaning again a few seconds later. This time I turned around. Behind the bench, maybe ten feet away, was a small elderly man, crunched near a bush. His face was pale and his eyes were shut tight, and he looked like he could be anywhere between 50 and 100 years old – his skin was leathery, and his face was contorted in agony. I called out to him and asked if he was alright, but he didn’t even respond. I called him again, but even this time I got no reply. So, I walked up to him and kneeled beside him. Only then did he show any kind of awareness. I asked him if he was ill, and he shook his head. I waited a moment, and asked him again. He only looked up at me and said: “I am not sick, I am hungry.”

His words sealed on my heart as if someone had pressed them there with a hot iron. “You’re hungry?” I asked again, almost unable to accept that in a world where luxury is often ostentatious, a man can still go hungry. “When did you eat last?”

He replied that he had only eaten a bit of a sandwich he had found discarded the morning before. My heart sank even lower – with temperatures in the 90s, and enough humidity to boil a fly in mid-air, it was possible that the sandwich he had eaten was spoiled. I asked him if he wanted me to call an ambulance, and he shook his head, so I told him to wait a moment, and I rushed to a restaurant nearby to fetch a cup of hot tea and a couple of Danish pastries. I figured that he could drink the tea now and nibble on one of the pastries until his stomach was ready to accept food again. If he was right, and he was only hungry, the hot tea and a few bites were going to work some magic. The young girl attending the counter at the coffee shop seemed a bit surprised when I asked for hot tea instead than coffee, but she produced a steaming cup of it nonetheless. I ran back to the old man and sat with him for a while as he took eager sips of the hot beverage. And, as he had said, his cramps slowly relaxed and he felt better. I sat with him a bit longer, while he told me his story – he lost everything he owned when Katrina hit, and it wasn’t long until he also lost his job in constructions. He was never able to find his daughter and grandson, and it wasn’t long before a profound depression left him mentally crippled and unwilling to pull himself together. I looked into his eyes, and saw no hope there. I asked him why he didn’t try to get some sort of help, but all he could say was that it didn’t matter. After a while, I had to leave to go back to the hotel, but I first stopped by a local grocery store and got him a few non-perishable items he could keep in his backpack. I hugged him and said goodbye, but I thought of him for days.

His story led me to think of how easily we judge things from the outside. This man is, in the eyes of the world, a beggar, a reject the rest of society probably wishes could disappear, but in reality he is simply a man in pain. When he lost everything, he lost himself, and he could no longer find the will to fight. Sad as it is, a large majority of homeless individuals are mentally ill, and while it is possible for some to find a sense of direction if they truly are seeking one, for some the cloud of despair makes the path to recovery too dark and treacherous to walk. So they give up, and survive humbly at the outskirts of a world often too busy to notice their neighbors’ painful alienation.

Today, I feel fortunate that I awoke so early on that last Sunday morning in New Orleans, and as I write this I hope that at least for a moment, my homeless friend realized he is worthy to be loved.

Lessons

“Life will teach you the lessons, it is up to you to learn them” ~ Author unknown


It was during our GOLO yard sale, yesterday, when I engaged in a brief conversation with a homeless man who happened to wander through the area. He mentioned that lately he has been trying to figure out what life is all about, and he felt sure that our time on earth is but a journey to discover how to give back.

He talked to Lolly and myself for a moment, then raised his eyes and asked: “But how do you give back?”

I truly had no immediate response for him, and suggested he should do his best to help others that are in worse predicaments than he is. Then, something else occurred to me…

Could it be possible that his life lesson is one of a different nature? What if instead than learning how to give back – which he didn’t seem to have a problem to do – his life lesson was about learning how to accept and be humble? After all, what better life situation could teach humility more than being homeless and at the mercy of others’ kindness? Is it possible to identify our life purpose by observing the facets of our reality and the patterns we implement in our daily existence?

We may not be able to understand some of the lessons that we are meant to learn, as it is not necessary for us to do so, but if we pay attention we can at least have a rough idea of the direction we should follow. For example, if we are the victim of a string of failed relationships, the culprit of that pattern could be appointed to a lack of self-love. Maybe, then, part of our life purpose could be that of learning how to embrace unconditional love toward ourselves and others.

As the wonderful teacher it is, life hands us assignments through our daily challenges. Whether we choose to do our homework or not is up to us.

The other face of the Homeless.

When walking down the paths of Moore Square in downtown Raleigh, North Carolina, one has the feeling of having reached the heart of the city.
The ancient oaks and poplar trees set a marked contrast to the rest of the world vibrating all around, and embrace each other as to create a net of protection over this tiny island of peace, from the hustle and bustle of the nearby City Market.
Moore Square is the home of Christine and some of her homeless friends.
I met Christine a few months ago, when I strolled downtown looking for a group of homeless to bring a box of groceries to. The first time I saw her, she was sitting on the edge of a small garden bed with a few others, and eyed me suspiciously when I walked right up to her and put the box down near her feet. I asked her if she knew anyone who could use the things I brought, and explained that the homeless guy I had bought those items for was nowhere to be found that morning. Christine told me that she was going to take care of distributing the groceries I brought, so I thanked her and left. As I walked off, I turned around to look, and saw that she had summoned several people I had not seen just a moment before, who were now all gathered around the cardboard box. Watching them go through the few treats I brought was like watching my children on Christmas morning: they were smiling and talking excitedly, and held fruit cups and packs of peanuts with the same reverence and enthusiasm that my kids display when opening an expensive new video game.
Since then, I have gone back several times to bring groceries and other small items. With each visit, their suspicion has thawed a little, and has now been completely replaced by gratefulness and excitement.
When I went to bring a box, two days ago, I saw that Christine’s backpack was badly torn, and her few belongings were falling out of it. I thought of the many backpacks in my storage room that my kids no longer use, and told Christine that I would bring them to her the next day. Yesterday morning, I went back with my younger son, my daughter, my friend Connie and her two children. Christine was in her usual spot sitting beside a few other homeless people, and greeted us with a big smile as we approached her “home”. I laid the bags near her other stuff, and we all talked for a while. While we sat, a small man, attired in a blue dress shirt and khaki pants walked up to my son, and handed him a small handful of change. Michael immediately refused, and tried to give the coins back, but the little man was adamant about him keeping them: he was touched by Michael’s compassion and good heart, and wanted to give something back.
Before we left, I told Christine that I would be back soon with more things; she just smiled and said: “You don’t have to bring anything. If you are in the area, just come by and talk to us for a while”.
Needless to say, we all left Moore Square with a lot more than we walked there with, and realized that there is another face to the homeless, a very human, warm and caring one. Beyond the rough edges, they are normal people, who enjoy human contact and love one another. Life circumstances have forced them to shed their ego and live humbly, but have not robbed them of human dignity and inner beauty. Their light shines from within and touches the heart of anyone who will take a moment to know them beyond their appearance. I don’t know if my son will ever again meet the little man who gave him the coins, but he will forever remember how, one day, an angel came up to him and gave him a gift from the heart, mindless of the fact that those coins could have been his next meal.