Trying to do better

Yesterday, on the wet streets of grey Portland, I felt like an ass.

I was walking back from lunch, a to-go cup of coffee in my hand, when a disheveled man in his early twenties approached me with a kind look on his face. He walked quickly toward me with a sense of purpose and then stopped to talk.

“Excuse me, sir,” he started slowly and uneasily. “I know you don’t know me and you don’t owe me anything. But I just got released from a drug treatment program on Friday, and my counselor left town for the weekend before helping me get set up. I tried to get into a shelter, but they turned me away because I don’t have a tuberculosis test. I was wondering if you might have a dollar or two so I can find another place to sleep tonight.”

I didn’t hesitate for long, because his story seemed straightforward and sincere. Over the weekend, I’d had others on the streets seek money for beer. Pot. Even a Frappucino from Starbucks. So this was a bit of a relief.

I dug in my right pocket, looking for the dollar bill I knew was there. Sliding my fingers under my wallet, unsure of what expression I should be wearing as the seconds dragged out, I finally found it — wrapped inside what I knew was a ten-dollar bill. I carefully extracted it so that both bills wouldn’t come out at the same time.

With an embarrassed little smile, I folded the dollar bill in half and handed it to the man. And, like I said, I felt like an ass.

I was standing there with a cup of coffee that cost $3, having just finished a lunch that cost four times that. I was on my way to a bookstore, looking to buy some things I didn’t really need.

And I only gave the man a dollar. Honestly, I don’t know if he was really going to put it toward a bed — like many of you, I’ve been poisoned by the cynicism that a handout will just go toward alcohol or drugs — but it didn't matter in that moment. I felt selfish in offering so little. I felt like a fraud.

During my working days at Mercy Corps, I feel capable of writing a story that will not only raise readers’ awareness of a place they’ve never heard of, but actually make them care about it. I know that, with the help of my colleagues, I can put together an email appeal that will raise thousands of dollars for earthquake survivors who have lost their homes, belongings and loved ones.

Dozens of homeless people sleep under Portland's Burnside Bridge on a cold, rainy autumn night. Photo: Roger Burks/Mercy Corps

But, confronted with need on the streets of Portland, I felt inadequate.

Last night, I took a train across the Willamette River to see a movie. When I boarded the train around 8 PM — right in front of the new Mercy Corps headquarters — there were a few homeless people gathering and claiming spots under the Burnside Bridge, sheltering themselves from the inevitable rain.

When I returned there after the movie, around midnight, there were dozens of people there: some were wrapped up in sleeping bags or blankets, while others simply propped themselves against the wall. I didn’t see the young man from earlier in the day, but I did see many in their teens and twenties, including a few couples.

Estimates say that there are up to 8,000 homeless people on the streets of Portland every night. The rain is falling. Winter is coming.

I spent $12 for lunch, $3 for coffee, $6.50 to see a movie and $2 for a soda — and gave just a dollar to help someone today.

I know that, individually, we can’t help everyone. But I feel like we can always try to do better.