Just another day in paradise
I want to write about pity but I want to do it in such a way that I don’t come across as trite or demeaning. I’m not sure that’s possible. Pity is inherently demeaning to the person being pitied, yet it’s a sensation I find myself struggling with on an almost daily basis.
It’s not just Mexico – I’ve always been a sucker for the underdog. I have trouble going into sparsely populated little stores because I feel somehow obligated to buy something; when finances decree that’s impossible, I leave with a surprisingly large degree of shame and guilt. It’s an extreme reaction, I admit, and probably worth some looking into on a psychoanalytical level.
I am not, however, generally susceptible to beggars. I have that Canadian sense of righteousness, I suppose, in which I assume that things will always work out as long as you follow the rules and do what’s expected of you. Those scrambling sorts on Queen Street, therefore, must be rebels, subversives, people unwilling to play the game, which is all fine and good and even moderately respectable but it doesn’t mean I must therefore sacrifice a penny of my hard-earned, hard-conformed money in order to support them. As low as I must hang my head to admit it, I do generally respond to most people begging for money with a silent snarling, “Go get a job.”
(Buskers and newspaper sellers, by the way, are not included in this list. Those, I feel, are just another definition of “job” – they are not asking for my money but earning it, and I will give it over freely if their music has made me smile.)
Now, one would think that a country with the personal financial crises as this one would lead to a great number of beggars on the street, but the reality is quite the opposite. Yes, there are beggars, but these are…
This is not Toronto.
My dear friend Ana went to Toronto for the first time this past Christmas and was not terribly impressed. Too many homeless people, she said.
People don’t beg in Mexico City unless they are absolutely out of other options. Young people sell pirated cd compilations for $1, children sell packets of gum for a nickel. The very destitute will crawl along the subway floor, rubbing at shoes with a dirty cloth without once making eye contact with you. The streets are lined with men and women selling flowers, peanuts, shelving units, cigarettes, baked goods, mechanical birds that sing, Mexican flags, inflatable dolls, helium balloons, clothing, bubble wands, organ music, cellphone air time, football paraphernalia…
So who remains? Those unable to wind their way between the cars with tamarind lollipops because of visibly gangrenous limbs. Tiny grandmothers who couldn’t find a job in a society that puts legal age limits on employability. Mothers, often indigenous, dangling with babies and small children who play quietly on the side of the road.
Now me, I talk about money constantly. I don’t earn a lot here – I did approach my boss after receiving my first paycheque and managed to talk her into paying me more, but it’s still what I earned in a week up in Canada. After putting 95% of my paycheques in the bank so my parents up in Canada can do me the immensely kind favour of transferring it to my Canadian account, I have very little left. I am learning to appreciate the value of a dollar/peso.
But it’s a choice, this poverty, and not even true poverty at that. I make the decision to not leave enough money in my pocket to go to a movie, but I’m still buying Coca Light (a much better tasting version of Diet Coke) and watermelon with chile on a regular basis. If I wanted to, I could put 25% or 10% of my money in the bank and live large on what I’m making. As is, I’m planning on spending a frugal Easter weekend in the nearby city of Cholula because, gosh, I sure could use a break.
And so when tiny shrouded grandmother wanders up to the window, lifting her hand high in a way that is part open to receive and part plaintive prayer, my usual underdog shame and guilt combine with a pervasive sense of pity to form one profoundly complicated emotion. I cannot simply dismiss her, write her off as yet another hand trying to get undeservedly in my pocket, yet I also cannot save her.
And so I ache a little inside and I try not to make eye contact with her because the humanity is overwhelming and I try not to feel terrible that TD Canada Trust and the National Student Loans Centre of Canada are apparently more deserving than an elderly woman forced onto the street by circumstances unknown.
And then I move on.
Light turns green, bus rolls past, the woman is left beside the road. I’ll see her tomorrow, no doubt. She’s always there.
The man outside my apartment will hopefully sell a few handmade wooden breakfast-in-bed tables today. I hope he does, as much for me as for him.
I can’t conceive of the definitions of my responsibilities to the greater world yet, although I’m quite certain they are greater than those I’ve been living to date.
It’s not just Mexico – I’ve always been a sucker for the underdog. I have trouble going into sparsely populated little stores because I feel somehow obligated to buy something; when finances decree that’s impossible, I leave with a surprisingly large degree of shame and guilt. It’s an extreme reaction, I admit, and probably worth some looking into on a psychoanalytical level.
I am not, however, generally susceptible to beggars. I have that Canadian sense of righteousness, I suppose, in which I assume that things will always work out as long as you follow the rules and do what’s expected of you. Those scrambling sorts on Queen Street, therefore, must be rebels, subversives, people unwilling to play the game, which is all fine and good and even moderately respectable but it doesn’t mean I must therefore sacrifice a penny of my hard-earned, hard-conformed money in order to support them. As low as I must hang my head to admit it, I do generally respond to most people begging for money with a silent snarling, “Go get a job.”
(Buskers and newspaper sellers, by the way, are not included in this list. Those, I feel, are just another definition of “job” – they are not asking for my money but earning it, and I will give it over freely if their music has made me smile.)
Now, one would think that a country with the personal financial crises as this one would lead to a great number of beggars on the street, but the reality is quite the opposite. Yes, there are beggars, but these are…
This is not Toronto.
My dear friend Ana went to Toronto for the first time this past Christmas and was not terribly impressed. Too many homeless people, she said.
People don’t beg in Mexico City unless they are absolutely out of other options. Young people sell pirated cd compilations for $1, children sell packets of gum for a nickel. The very destitute will crawl along the subway floor, rubbing at shoes with a dirty cloth without once making eye contact with you. The streets are lined with men and women selling flowers, peanuts, shelving units, cigarettes, baked goods, mechanical birds that sing, Mexican flags, inflatable dolls, helium balloons, clothing, bubble wands, organ music, cellphone air time, football paraphernalia…
So who remains? Those unable to wind their way between the cars with tamarind lollipops because of visibly gangrenous limbs. Tiny grandmothers who couldn’t find a job in a society that puts legal age limits on employability. Mothers, often indigenous, dangling with babies and small children who play quietly on the side of the road.
Now me, I talk about money constantly. I don’t earn a lot here – I did approach my boss after receiving my first paycheque and managed to talk her into paying me more, but it’s still what I earned in a week up in Canada. After putting 95% of my paycheques in the bank so my parents up in Canada can do me the immensely kind favour of transferring it to my Canadian account, I have very little left. I am learning to appreciate the value of a dollar/peso.
But it’s a choice, this poverty, and not even true poverty at that. I make the decision to not leave enough money in my pocket to go to a movie, but I’m still buying Coca Light (a much better tasting version of Diet Coke) and watermelon with chile on a regular basis. If I wanted to, I could put 25% or 10% of my money in the bank and live large on what I’m making. As is, I’m planning on spending a frugal Easter weekend in the nearby city of Cholula because, gosh, I sure could use a break.
And so when tiny shrouded grandmother wanders up to the window, lifting her hand high in a way that is part open to receive and part plaintive prayer, my usual underdog shame and guilt combine with a pervasive sense of pity to form one profoundly complicated emotion. I cannot simply dismiss her, write her off as yet another hand trying to get undeservedly in my pocket, yet I also cannot save her.
And so I ache a little inside and I try not to make eye contact with her because the humanity is overwhelming and I try not to feel terrible that TD Canada Trust and the National Student Loans Centre of Canada are apparently more deserving than an elderly woman forced onto the street by circumstances unknown.
And then I move on.
Light turns green, bus rolls past, the woman is left beside the road. I’ll see her tomorrow, no doubt. She’s always there.
The man outside my apartment will hopefully sell a few handmade wooden breakfast-in-bed tables today. I hope he does, as much for me as for him.
I can’t conceive of the definitions of my responsibilities to the greater world yet, although I’m quite certain they are greater than those I’ve been living to date.
Comments
Your pity is rooted in your decency.
ST