Asking a Homeless Man His Name

Dear Diary:

I was walking down the stairs from Eighth Avenue to the subway entrance when I saw a man, in his 40s to 50s, standing in front of the subway turnstiles. It didn’t seem that he had been out on the streets long enough to acquire that worn-out, beat-up look that comes to everyone if they have to brave the streets long enough. He was fidgeting like a boy in elementary school who wanted to ask the teacher for something but the words just weren’t coming out. In a voice that was semi-frantic he said: “I’ve been hungry; can you give me a dollar to get something to eat?”

I found a $5 bill and gave it to him, something I’ve done fewer times than I wish I could have, but it was what happened next that was truly extraordinary. In a moment of exultant spontaneity he smiled, opened up his arms and in one motion hugged me and kissed me on the ear.

I always introduce myself and ask them their names because, for most of the world that passes them by, they have become people who no longer have names. His name was Francisco, and, as he left, he thanked me again. I said: “No problem. Hopefully things will get better and you’ll pass it on.”

I walked into the train with a smile on my face. It wasn’t that his show of gratitude affirmed that I’m somehow virtuous, because it wasn’t about me, and anyway, more than anything, I’m just a guy who saw another person and happened to have a $5 bill to spare. Maybe it was his spontaneous childlike wonder, which is mostly missing from all of us who’ve “grown up,” let alone those in more difficult circumstances.

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