Spare Change?
Besides, am I really helping someone out when I give her money? Some are alcoholics or addicts whose habits I'm supporting. Others are disturbed or deranged people who have fallen through society's cracks. All deserve some kind of assistance. But is handing out money on the street helping? Or enabling?
We have a score or more people in San Miguel scattered around El Centro asking for money. Some, like this blind man, project a sense of legitimate need. Not many opportunities for the blind in Mexico.
He's a fixture. I see him tapping along, working his way from one spot to another. He seems to know the streets well, moving with a sureness born of years of experience.
You could say he's a professional panhandler, in that he's out there every day. Donations may be the only income he has. His profession seems to be a lonely one. I never see people stopping to talk with him.
The woman below is another familiar face. At first glance, her situation seems more pathetic, because her child (or grandchild) sits on the street with her: a terrible circumstance to grow up in.
But things here may not be what they seem. Some street beggars are known to rent preschool children for the day, the better to play on the sympathy of potential donors. This is not to say that women like her are necessarily undeserving, that somehow they are scamming the public. But it's appalling to me that children are exploited, that parents are driven to feel they must use their children like this.
One of my Mexicana friends told me that some street beggars are part of a family enterprise. The Señor drives a cab, a sister sells her embroidery, and grandma panhandles. Tragically, another told me some women are beaten if they fail to collect enough money. Maybe my donation is saving someone from terror and pain.
In cities, I often encounter one or two older women staked out at entrances to major churches.
They have a proprietary air. Their faces don't reflect the desolation I see on others.
These are the true pros. They have the best locations. God only knows how they won the rights to their places, but they're there every day and no one else seems to challenge them.
One day I was watching them at their posts when lunchtime came around. They moved over to a more comfy spot, opened their bags and brought out the tupperware. They sat, eating their meals like a couple of secretaries on lunch break, chatting companionably. A half hour later, they were back in position, hands extended.
Once, walking the streets late at night in Bangkok, two six-year-old girls came up to me with Walter and Margaret Keane eyes. They held up some flowers and asked, "Baht? Baht?" I declined. Immediately they trotted off down the street, chattering happily to each other, ready to pull the pathetic waif act on the next farang who came along.
How much panhandling is an act? And when panhandlers are acting, does it really matter? After all, every panhandler is a salesperson. They're selling their need. They're offering you an opportunity to feel like a Good Samaritan.
I don't often give money to panhandlers. Other people are more generous. Who's right?