The disparity between the rich and the poor in New York is severe. People in business suits and people wearing rags walk the same streets, but do not even look each other in the eye. Generally, judgment flows both ways. The wealthy believe that the poor bring it upon themselves, that they are *****, and that they are nothing more than charity cases. The destitute criticize those who have money to be stuck-up and hypocritical. I have had the unique chance to break these characterizations that, in many cases, could not be farther from the truth. Many people on the streets have taken wrong turns on the road of life, are addicted, and have made their own bed in some respect. However, many have struggled with broken homes, have a mental illness or have a hard time speaking English. They did not choose this life for themselves; their circumstances placed them into it.
Take Herman for example. As an immigrant from Guatemala, his family seldom had much money. As an adult, he was in an accident and injured his leg, leaving him unable to work. After being incapable of supporting himself for many years, he lost his small apartment and became homeless. He is one of the people who came out the Relief Bus nearly every time I was in that spot. The Relief Bus is an organization that my dad found through my church. They go to several spots in New York City and Newark to feed soup to the passersby out of a hollowed out school bus. It was a chilly night in Port Authority when I was talking to Herman. What struck me about him was that he was wearing shorts in forty degree weather. He had several scarves and a hat on, and all of his belongings were in a shopping cart that he carried around with him. I get cold pretty quickly, so I was bundled up in a few layers of sweatshirts but I was still shaking. He handed me a scarf and my friend Sam a hat, both of which looked nearly new. I began to tear up and did not know what to say. This man who literally had nothing was giving us articles of his clothing. That night, I had almost stayed home, as I was tired and still grieving over my grandpa, who had passed away suddenly a week and a half earlier. For a moment, I forgot that I was suffering. For a moment, I could focus on giving love and compassion, as well as receiving it. For a moment, I was at peace.
Coincidentally, that night I slept for the first time since my grandpa passed away. Prior to this, I had fallen asleep in the theatre and passed out in a parking lot after chain smoking a pack of Marlboros. I still had nightmares and woke up several times that night, but it was a start. Maybe this was because I knew my grandpa was proud of me, or maybe it was because for the first time in years, I was proud of myself.