Things'll be great when you're downtown
Sep. 2nd, 2008 09:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration."
- Charles Dickens
My employer moved its offices last week. The new space is a short distance away -- only five blocks up and three blocks over -- but I have no shortage of complaints about the new location. It's a farther walk away from the Metro and my key transportation lines specifically, the building's security detail is zealously passionate about its mission (I have been wearing my best underwear lately, just in case of a strip search) and my new personal office is nestled snugly within the dank windowless armpit of the floorplan.
It could be that I am being too harsh and I will soon or eventually come to appreciate certain aspects of the new location. I have never been particularly good at dealing with change*. Anything that disrupts my routine will naturally confound me.
*Were I less Democratically inclined, Senator Obama's invocations of "change" would sound to me like death metal.
But there is something about this new commute that I suspect will be difficult for me to digest. With our simple move five blocks up and three blocks over, there is now a substantial number of homeless indigents, vagrants and panhandlers dotting my route from the train station to work.
They huddle in the corners of the McPherson Square stop in Vermont Avenue, where the canopy provides shade and shelter from the elements. They curl up in the man-made alcoves along 15th Street, nearly blending in with the detritus of litter and commercial construction. They stake out their territory in and along the grassy knoll, filing into lines as they wait for the good samaratans to pass out the day's ration of soup.
Some of them half-heartedly pester me, cups extended, for spare change. Some of them lurk, intently but without purpose, pacing in uneven steps. Some of them slouch there on the sidewalk, sleeping or staring into middle distance, as if dead. Maybe they really are dead. Who will know? Who will care? Maybe dead is better.
Nine years in the big city, and I still don't know how to feel about this. On a personal level, these individuals are an eyesore, a nuisance and a danger, obstacles to be avoided, ignored and promptly forgotten. On an impersonal level -- which is to say intellectually, rationally, dispassionately -- they are the unfortunate waste products of a global machine that cannot be turned off.
But somewhere between these cold calculations is the interpersonal, in which mere survival instinct is subverted by humanity, sympathy and charity. Through this lens, for a moment, you can see all the lost love and sleep in those watery, bloodshot eyes. And in the next moment, you can explain it all away with assumptions of drunkenness or drugs.
I spend my morning walk with my thoughts bouncing between these different perspectives. It is both exhausting and paralyzing, leaving only instinct to take over. When confronted by a request for spare change, I can only shake my head and say, "I'm sorry." It's as much a declaration as it is a denial.
- Charles Dickens
My employer moved its offices last week. The new space is a short distance away -- only five blocks up and three blocks over -- but I have no shortage of complaints about the new location. It's a farther walk away from the Metro and my key transportation lines specifically, the building's security detail is zealously passionate about its mission (I have been wearing my best underwear lately, just in case of a strip search) and my new personal office is nestled snugly within the dank windowless armpit of the floorplan.
It could be that I am being too harsh and I will soon or eventually come to appreciate certain aspects of the new location. I have never been particularly good at dealing with change*. Anything that disrupts my routine will naturally confound me.
*Were I less Democratically inclined, Senator Obama's invocations of "change" would sound to me like death metal.
But there is something about this new commute that I suspect will be difficult for me to digest. With our simple move five blocks up and three blocks over, there is now a substantial number of homeless indigents, vagrants and panhandlers dotting my route from the train station to work.
They huddle in the corners of the McPherson Square stop in Vermont Avenue, where the canopy provides shade and shelter from the elements. They curl up in the man-made alcoves along 15th Street, nearly blending in with the detritus of litter and commercial construction. They stake out their territory in and along the grassy knoll, filing into lines as they wait for the good samaratans to pass out the day's ration of soup.
Some of them half-heartedly pester me, cups extended, for spare change. Some of them lurk, intently but without purpose, pacing in uneven steps. Some of them slouch there on the sidewalk, sleeping or staring into middle distance, as if dead. Maybe they really are dead. Who will know? Who will care? Maybe dead is better.
Nine years in the big city, and I still don't know how to feel about this. On a personal level, these individuals are an eyesore, a nuisance and a danger, obstacles to be avoided, ignored and promptly forgotten. On an impersonal level -- which is to say intellectually, rationally, dispassionately -- they are the unfortunate waste products of a global machine that cannot be turned off.
But somewhere between these cold calculations is the interpersonal, in which mere survival instinct is subverted by humanity, sympathy and charity. Through this lens, for a moment, you can see all the lost love and sleep in those watery, bloodshot eyes. And in the next moment, you can explain it all away with assumptions of drunkenness or drugs.
I spend my morning walk with my thoughts bouncing between these different perspectives. It is both exhausting and paralyzing, leaving only instinct to take over. When confronted by a request for spare change, I can only shake my head and say, "I'm sorry." It's as much a declaration as it is a denial.
Can You Spare a Dime?
Date: 2008-09-03 04:22 am (UTC)What I found so comforting about their presence was their laid-back Philly demeanor. They'll extend a cup or quietly ask for a handout. But you can easily ignore/step over them and not even notice. This is a stark contrast to the panhandlers I have dodged for the last 8 years in Baltimore.
The Baltimore Bums first ask you for money. When you say, "no" they usually have some indignant response about how they've been sitting in the hot sun all day no one will help them. If you simply try to ignore them, they will yell at you for acting like they don't exist. It's positively annoying, and often a little bit scary. (Not one of them ever laid a hand on me, but they would occasionally bang on my car at intersections or start swearing in tongues.)
This aggressive attitude took me by surprise when I first encountered it. But I had gotten used to it as part of daily life. So used to it, that I had forgotten that it once surprised me. It wasn't until I passed by a few Philly bums today, and didn't get harassed that I found myself shocked because I was actually left alone.