Long afternoon spent running baby and grocery errands. I spent too much time mulling over baby items which put me into a bind in terms of eating lunch, and that can be a big problem for my blood sugar.
So. After a trip to the grocery store, I schlepped my fully loaded cart to the subway, munching on a pouch of pepperoni. Feeling less shaky and tired, I load my cargo and my bones into the C train and sit and eat.
A few minutes later, the door connecting the cars opens and a fortyish black dude ambles in. I recognize him. He's a fella I used to see almost daily up in Harlem - which I think is where he lives, or at least hangs out, panhandling. He walks passed me a bit, toward the center of the car. His clothes are raggedy and he's maybe a little drunk. I don't know his name, and I don't think he recognizes me.
As he begins his speech to the car, about how he's homeless and hungry and doesn't want to ask for help but he needs whatever anyone could offer, I already have my hand on my pocketbook, fishing out a dollar bill. He finishes his speech, he turns to me, and I hand him the dollar. He says thank you, and his lips purse into a kiss.
As he begins to walk off, I feel the food I'm chewing and I feel guilty. I feel like I can and should do more.
"Hey, man," I say, "Do you want some food? Do you want an apple?"
He turns, he hesitates, and says, "No. I don't want an apple. Anything else, but not an apple."
I feel foolish. I bet homeless people get a lot of fucking apples. I've got a whole cart of groceries and I'm offering an apple.
"What do you want to eat? I just went shopping."
"Anything. Anything else. Whatever you want to give me." He sits down next to me.
I rifle through my bags, "How about turkey slices? You like turkey?"
He smiles. He nods. I hand over the tub of deli meat.
He says softly, "I can't be homeless. I can't..."
"You're going to be okay," I say, but I don't know that's true. "You're gonna get through this. Just try to take care of yourself, okay?"
Then he offers, "Can I stay with you?"
I laugh. I can't tell if he's hitting on me, or just drunkenly pleading for help. Either way, he's obviously serious.
"No," I answer, "I'm sorry."
"I will be a good boy, I won't steal nothing," he tries.
I smile and take a maternal tone with him, "I know, babe. I know. But you just can't."
He laughs for a long time, dark eyes peering into mine the whole time, mouth open wide, exposing a partial row of missing teeth, then he gets up and shuffles away to another seat, tearing open the package of meat.
I think I hear him mutter something about sandwiches while he inspects the turkey, so I call over to him, "Do you want some bread, too? To make sandwiches? Come here."
He returns, and we negotiate four slices after I initially offer two from my newly purchased loaf. My stop is approaching, so I get up and get myself ready. I put my hand on his shoulder, "Take care of yourself, okay?"
He says something I don't quite catch, eyeing my pregnant belly (maybe for the first time), but I make out the word "son." I smile.
He asks, "Do you know for sure if the baby will be white?"
I don't know if it's just where my head is at that moment, or if it's because of who was asking it, but I'm not offended. All I hear is sadness in his voice.
I smile. Yes, he will be white.
He nods. "That's good. That's the best thing."
In that instant, I had the urge to give him all my groceries.
Instead, the doors open, and I exit. And I'm flooded with sadness, guilt, frustration at the state of this world. This man knows what I know, and what I wrestle with often: I'm growing a person whose cultural market value is the highest possible - a white male. He'll have easy opportunities that I've had to shout and struggle to get, and that my friend on the train seems to have given up completely on ever receiving.
Baby, you are in many ways a golden child. I hope you grow up with an awareness of how to treat everyone you meet with kindness and compassion. I hope you use your powers for good.
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