Homeless people present a problem for me.

On one hand, I feel so bad for them and I really want to help people in need. On the other hand, they see the giant “SUCKER” written on my forehead, and they take advantage of me as much as they can. Consequently, I have to preemptively ignore them and/or be rude to them, so as not to be scammed by them, which makes me feel like an absolutely horrible person.

I could tell stories about homeless people all day long, like the beggar in Italy who followed me for blocks screaming at me in Italian after I gave her some, but not all of my change (hey, they have 1€ and 2€ coins over there!), or the guy who used to accost me on my back porch whenever I was grilling because he “needed money to catch the bus home” (several times a week apparently), or the guy who holds the door open at Dunkin’ Donuts to guilt you into giving him something on the way out (yeah, I can get my own door, thanks), or the guy who gave me directions in my own neighborhood and then tried to get me to give him money for a homeless shelter where “you can get work, but only if you stay overnight and that costs money”, or the lady who tearfully asked Sara for grocery money for her kids and pulled her grocery list out of her cigarette pack (sorry kids, mama’s gotta smoke). But I don’t want to tell you any of those stories. I want to tell you this story instead:

When we were in New Orleans, a homeless guy singled me out of the crowd and started talking to me (I guess he could read that big SUCKER on my forehead).
“I bet I can tell you where you got those shoes.”
“Where I got my shoes?” I asked, trying to remember where I got my shoes.
“I bet I can tell you where you got those shoes!”
“Uh, okay?” I bought them in New York City on vacation. Is there a tag on them or something? How could he know that?
“Well, I don’t know where you bought them, but right now you’ve got them in New Orleans, Louisiana!”

And before I could react, he tossed a big sticky wad of goo on my shoes. I looked down incredulously, but he whipped out a cloth and started polishing my shoes. Continuing to be the biggest idiot on the planet, I thought, “Good, you better clean that crap off my shoe!”

When he was done, he stood up and said, “That will be $20 for the shoe shine.”
“No way, I’m not paying you.”
He raised his voice. “You owe me $20. Are you trying to cheat me?”
At this point, my face got red. I felt angry, but also embarrassed. I didn’t want to cause a scene. In other words, he had me right where he wanted me.
“I’ll give you $10.”
“No way, you owe me $20 for…”
I hardened my voice. “I’ll give you $10.” He knew I meant business.
“Okay,  fine.”

In other words, despite his rudeness and manipulations, I still ended up giving him $10. SUCKER.

Sometimes I even think “maybe I’m being a jerk, maybe a few bad eggs have spoiled begging for everybody”. But the other day, as I was driving by the guy by Evie’s school with the, “Homeless, please help, God bless” sign, I saw him pull a cell phone out of his pocket to check the time (to be fair, he may have been checking to see if he had any texts). I couldn’t help but feel a little cheated there. I’ve never given him money, but in the few minutes I spend sitting at that light twice a week, I’ve seen him get a lot of serious cash.

Lately, Evie’s been asking questions about them: how do they live without a house, where do they sleep, can they get married, etc. She hasn’t yet asked about giving them money or why we don’t help them, but it seems like the next logical question. How can I explain it to her? Am I teaching her not to be compassionate? The thing is, it really does eat me up inside to treat them as less than human, something to be ignored. I want to help people. If only I could separate the scammers from the honest people.

Honestly? I’m not sure any one of them is honest, based on my experiences.