She stopped me while I was walking the dogs to let me know an unhoused neighbor who my son and I would occasionally assist with food and other resources died.
I'd been wondering about him. He slept in an alcove in an alley behind our building. I hadn’t seen him recently, and both Ben and I wondered where his bed had gone.
Someone, she didn’t know how, had given the news to her daughter. "Complications of alcoholism, they think," she told me. "I knew you'd want to know."
I hope he didn't die alone, I responded.
I'm guessing he did.
Living in a neighborhood as diverse as mine allows me the privilege of pushing myself into previously uncharted territory. I’m surrounded by experiences that don’t match what I’ve internalized, and I’m continually and constantly pushed off autopilot (in some of the same ways parenting has done for me).
What I remind myself over and over is that I want to be accountable to my community, both locally and globally. I want people to understand I care about them and am committed to this place.
Here is some of what that means for me:
I give what I can and I never attach my giving to an expectation.
I don't care if you're going to spend my money on booze or drugs.
You don't have to perform poverty correctly or morally or righteously for me to see *you* and give you what I can.
I do not always have what someone needs or wants, and I don't take offense if the bag of snacks and hygiene items and socks and hand warmers I offer out my car window is passed up because you'd rather have White Castle.
I don't balk if I offer to buy someone food and they choose Cheetos and orange soda.
I don't refuse if I'm heading into Wendy's and they'd rather have Chipotle next door.
I don't think twice if a worker behind the counter tells me: "They do this every day." I look the worker in the eye and respond simply: "I'd rather error on the side of kindness."
Nobody needs your judgement. Nobody.
What they do need is for you to see their humanity and act accordingly.
I hope you are resting in the stars, my friend.