Change We Could Use

Whenever I think the denizens of Cambridge, students included, are starting to show some real signs of intelligence, that common sense and reason are back in vogue, I comfort myself with one thought:

"She's still out there."

"She," of course, being that fixture on the Harvard Square scene, perched upon her milk crates next to Yenching, asking day after day--perhaps 1,000 times daily--for a bit of your spare change.

Seniors are well familiar with this living landmark. First-years, in their naivet, are most likely under the impression that she is just another beggar, one of the colorful characters that defines the distinctive cityscape that so attracted them to Harvard in the first place. Little do they realize that she will soon become as constant a presence in their lives as map-wielding tourists in the Yard and soggy French fries in the dining hall. As they progress throughout their years at Harvard, choosing concentrations, moving into Houses, running for elections, writing theses and donning the cap and gown, she will continue to beg and beg, mooching her way through life.

Some may ask why I'm targeting this woman. Why turn my focus to her? Doesn't she have any privacy? Why don't I just pick on Pat Buchanan, Bob Barr or some other public figure worthy of our real disdain?

First, anyone who spends as much time as she does out on the sidewalk certainly qualifies as "public" in my book. Second, the way she is treated by daily pedestrians says a lot about our treatment of the homeless in general and is worthy of an examination. And lastly, she deserves it.

Now, I realize that a lot of people like this woman. Of course, a lot of people like pro wrestling, too, but that doesn't mean it makes any more sense. And speaking of not making sense: an obese beggar? Am I missing something here? It is a combination as foreign as a keg-standing priest or a thought-provoking Core section. Perhaps, however, the ample frame partly explains her choice of occupancy in front of the Porcellian Club. Shacking up before any other similar locale--the Fox, the Owl, the Fly--would imply an agility and spryness far too incongruous for our portly panhandler.

Girth aside, lest you think I am some inhumane, round-up-the-homeless-and-put-'em-in-a-hole reactionary, let me point out that I am not at all averse to giving spare change to the homeless. Although there are times I wish they wouldn't resort to such maddening gestures like opening the door for me and expecting a "reward" for their efforts--as if my two arms had suddenly become nonfunctional and I would otherwise be unable to enter 7-Eleven to buy a box of Pop Tarts--the truth is that some people are just plain down on their luck, whether it's due to an incapacity, the effects of discrimination or just a rotten turn of recent events. And it is to these individuals that I have gladly and understandably forked over some dough, some "getting-by" money, some transitional cash.

But none of these circumstances applies to our friend. Incapacitated? Well, she can't really walk so well, but I don't really see that mild disability keeping her out of the job market. Discriminated against? No, nothing there, either. About the only possibility is her gender, but that is generally an upper-management prejudice--and I can't envision her having bumped into any glass ceilings in the recent past. And finally, on the subject of recent past, she has been at her stoop for most of it. Since I began attending this university, she has sat atop her milk crates almost every day.

Clearly, then, she is not in any transitional phase. She is not doing this because she suddenly got a bad break. She's not doing it just to make it by until she gets her next job. She seems to do it because, well, that's what she does. While you and I spend countless late nights memorizing equations and writing papers, while our parents labor 10 to 12 hours a day in mind-numbing office environments to earn a paycheck, while our grandparents rest secure in the fact that all their efforts in scrimping and saving their meager wages from the meat-packing plant or the assembly line paid off in engendering a large, thriving family tree from essentially nothing--she asks other people for money, and they give it to her. Every day.

Even more infuriating, however, is the fact that Harvard Square is replete with destitute women, homeless old men and other mendicants of a similar ilk who honestly do need our assistance to make it to the next day. Unlike our friend, you won't find them striking up conversations with passersby. They don't take the T into Harvard Square every day. They don't carry cute little signs. They are not charming, personable, or, often, even just plain nice. A lot of them clearly have mental problems. But it is these folks who truly require our help, who need monetary assistance to make it from day to day. And from observation, they don't seem to be getting it.

I guess the lesson is that if you're going to be a beggar in Cambridge, the assistance you'll receive will be related not to how much you actually need it, but how much of a swell, likeable person you are. And how long you've been at it. Or am I wrong?

When I was in middle school, a friend of mine and I realized that if we asked everyone we knew for a quarter, and did this day after day, we could make for ourselves five, ten dollars a week--no chump change to a couple of seventh-graders. The plan worked great for about four days. Then everybody realized what we were on to, and the donations quickly--and deservedly--dried up. And it's not because our friends and peers were heartless elites. It's not because they had ideological objections to giving money to people. It's because they realized they were being taken for suckers. If a bunch of thirteen-year-olds can figure that out, why can't we?

George W. Hicks '99-'00 is an economics concentrator in Winthrop House. His column will appear on alternate Fridays.