On the homeless

Growing up, it seems we learn to disengage from so many things--to stop asking questions, to stop being curious, to even stop being compassionate. While I understand the need to compartmentalize (as if we faced all the world's suffering with open hearts, we would be gutted within moments) I am astonished by the depth of retraining I have had to do in my own mind and heart.

When in Italy with my mother, I began discussing the dairy industry with her. She, like so many, had no idea that cows simply do not produce milk (in the way that hens consistently lay unfertilized eggs). Cows have to be impregnated to produce milk. The calves are taken away from the mothers almost immediately; the mothers are then milked, usually by machines, while the calves are more often than not left to suffer in veal crates. My dogwalking friend, Dawn, used to work for a dairy farm. She said it was awful--the mothers and calves would bellow until their vocal chords went raw. While I remember telling my mom and dad this previously, this seems to be the first time my mother heard me. Her face dropped; she looked pained. It was the look of a mother--one that doesn't want inflict such onto another mother. She had dairy a few more times in Italy, but her previous appetite for it vanished with the knowledge of the immense suffering from which is comes. She is now looking to phase it out of her life. (In all honesty, I don't think I will ever go back to meat or dairy, but I would rather go back to ethical meat before I would ever go back to dairy.)

As an aside, I am often asked why I am vegan. I talk about health, the environment and animal welfare--usually in that order, because it seems animal welfare can garner me nasty looks, or, at the very least, rolled eyes. This, to me, seems like another way in which we've been led (misled) to turn blind eyes, to draw a shade over our hearts--remove compassion for the sake of convenience.

We are told lies. Cows are stupid. Cows need to be milked else they will be sore. Etc. Yes, cows do need to be milked... but the milk is there for their young. If their calves were with them, there would be no need for milking. We have also, as a society, been led to believe that nature is more than imperfect; we're actually led to believe that nature needs humans to fix things! I can think of nothing more arrogant or false.

Meanwhile, there are things humans can fix... within the human society, which continue to be swept into shallow, unlit compartments of the mind--my mind included. I have always felt more connected to animals, even trees, water and wind, than people. This is not a flaw, nor it is an achievement--it is just simply the reality of my being. Yes, I have tried to provide a human voice for animals and the environment--and will continue to do so--but I actually believe plants and animals already have "voices," it is just that most people have learned or inherited deafness. The flaw on my end is that I am often deaf to human suffering (mainly because I am so disturbed by so many human activities).

One shallow, unlit compartment in my brain was only recently illuminated--and that is the compartment in which I placed the homeless. I've thought about the homeless before... and admittedly, I thought of them because of their dogs. At one point, it seemed cruel--homeless people with pets--but I revised my thinking on that about four years ago. I've read a number of articles discussing the services available for homeless pet owners (so that dogs can be vaccinated, receive vet care, etc), and I have also seen a number of very good homeless pet owners. The glory for the dog is the 24-hour relationship with the owner. I feel more sorry for a dog chained up at the back of a family home than I do for a homeless person's dog. Of course, bad pet owners come in all shapes and sizes--from the very rich to the very poor--wealth, however, is not what decides the quality of a pet owner.

So, I have thought about homeless people and their pets before. I have even bought dog food and dog treats for homeless people with dogs. Very rarely though do I give money to the homeless. We are (or at least I was) chided at times for giving to the homeless. We are told: They are drunks. They are drug addicts. They are fakers. Today I wondered to myself why, even if they are drunks, does that matter? I do understand the disturbing issue of fakers. An article ran in New York a few years ago about a "homeless" woman making hundreds of dollars daily on donations, who had her own flat on the West Side. So, there are some fakers... but I think homeless shelters tell us the larger story: there are many truly homeless.

It seems that maybe the homeless are viewed as weak--they couldn't hack it. Maybe they are drunk because they were sexually abused and beaten. Maybe they had shit childhoods, but the pervasive thought seems to be: get over it. At least, this is my experience. I can recognize distant relatives to these thoughts even within my own mind.

Last month, my mom, my boss, Marie, and I were walking in Oxford. Marie stopped to chat to a homeless man on Cornmarket Street--the major retail, pedestrianized street in Oxford. He had a little puppy with him. The puppy, Rosie, was his, but was staying with his mate in the homeless shelters evenings because he felt it was too cold for her as a pup to sleep in his tent at night. When he said tent, Marie asked the location--it is the one behind the ice rink, along the river--one Marie had passed many times on her bicycle. It has been there nearly four years, but because he is not a drunk or addict, the police leave him alone. He doesn't disturb anybody, so they don't disturb him. Marie bought a copy of The Big Issue, Britain's homeless, micro-finance campaign/magazine, shook his hand, and told him her name. His name was Steve.

Marie has always had a very soft spot for the homeless and she has taught me much about human compassion. (I'd like to think that I've taught her a little about animal compassion too--though she is already quite an animal lover.)

So, I was on Cornmarket today and I saw Steve again. He looked exhausted... and Rosie, much bigger now, was teething and chewing on her lead. There I am in a nice dress, nice shoes, pretty necklace and pretty ring... and there he is, torn clothing, healthy puppy, bowl of coins in front of him. When I saw him just last month, there was some light in his eyes. Today, there was only sadness.

Marie asked him how he had become homeless. He is actually from Yorkshire (like her) and had bought a house with a girlfriend in Abingdon (where we live). He had a job. Everything somehow went pear-shaped--with him and his girlfriend, and then him and his job. (Reminder: he is an addict of no kind.) He has been homeless for four years--slightly less than the length of time I have lived in the UK. How quickly falling can transpire. (When discussing this with Kwok, he recalled a story about Prince Charles meeting an old schoolmate who had become homeless.)

Today, Steve was slumped in front of a mobile phone shop, which sells mobiles that can cost upwards of £400 ($650). They also have phone plans which can run up to £50 ($80) a month. Last time I saw him, he was in front of Fat Face, a clothing store. I couldn't help but think of the desperately sick juxtaposition. 


Today, I knelt down beside Steve. He had just woken from a nap, and barely registered me. I began talking about when we met. He didn't remember. Rosie continued to gnaw on her flexi-lead. I purchased a copy of The Big Issue, and then asked him if he was tired. He said he had barely slept all week, though he didn't know why. (I can think of a few reasons being that he lives in a tent in England.) I asked him if he wanted a coffee and his face lit up. "Yes, please. If you don't mind. Thank you so much," he said. As I walked toward Starbucks--about five stores down from where he was sitting--he asked for milk and sugar. (I couldn't help but internally wince about the milk, but I wasn't going to deny it him.) 


I spent more money on a Soy Chai Tea Latte in Starbucks yesterday than it costs to buy a copy of The Big Issue. Today, I bought him his coffee, as well as a (vegan--yay!) falafel sandwich, which was toasted, and two dark chocolate bars for some of my colleagues at OxTrad, who were particularly stressed today. I spent £7.50 and none of it was for me. The purchase was far better than the Soy Chai Tea Latte I purchased only for myself yesterday. 


When I got back to Steve, I handed him the coffee and asked if he would like the sandwich. He accepted gladly and said he would share it with Rosie. He kept saying, "You're so kind. You're so kind," but I couldn't help thinking of all the times I haven't been kind to the homeless--all the times I walked straight past without a glance. While there is always (rightly) an element of safety in the back of my mind with regards to engaging with the homeless, I think I have often used that element to ignore and to stifle.

I've been reading Wild Swans over the last few weeks. I cannot even describe the ways in which my mentally painted picture of China has changed. This is not even to say that I had an inaccurate mental painting--simply that it has been expanded... and expanded with much shock and horror. The Cultural Revolution is perhaps one of the most screwed-up, convoluted times in contemporary memory. Mao essentially insisted that no one think. How outrageous, right? But suddenly... today... after writing this post, the idea does not seem as foreign as it did a few weeks ago.

I am compelled to think... and keep thinking... and to stop allowing myself to stifle compassion. In the face of it all, it seems one of our best (and one of our only) tools.

Love, love, love.