The Sea and The Gall

I just got back from being at the beach for a few days with my daughter. We came home refreshed (not really), tan and ready to start a new school year (her). We visited Atlantic City, NJ, which is not our normal digs but our favorite team happened to be playing in A.C., so we were able to do the beach thing AND catch a few games.

I learned something very interesting about myself while I was visiting Atlantic City. As we strolled the boardwalk in the evenings, I found myself doling money out to the beggars on the boards – but with some prejudice. The people who know me know that I don’t have much tolerance for people who don’t help themselves. The people who know me well know that the preceding statement is really only the surface. I am really quite a push-over and can be hoodwinked at the drop of a hat – especially if there are children involved. I want to be strong when it comes to things like that - and often times I am 99.9% sure that I'm being conned - but on the odd chance that the woman really does have a child that she left in Guadalajara who was born with no arms, legs or head and needs an operation.....I just gotta give her some money.

My mind goes back a few years to when my daughters and I were in Mexico. I had a very difficult time saying no to most of the vagabonds we encountered because most of them were smart enough to bring their barefoot, filthy, sad-eyed little children along for the begging. I remember, quite specifically, a comment my older daughter made, “Mom, do you ever think these people might be living better than we are and this is how they do it?” She wasn’t begrudging the hand-outs. In fact, I think she was digging in her purse for another Peso to give away.

Later that day we got on a bus to go back to our hotel and realized very quickly that we had boarded the wrong bus. Of course the bus driver didn’t speak English. Why would he? So, my oldest daughter and I wracked our brains trying to come up with the words we knew in Spanish to form a sentence that would let the driver know we needed to get off the bus (this is after 4 years of Spanish classes???). Before we knew it (and before we had formed a sentence) we found ourselves in the trenches of poverty.

The dirt road leading up a hill and out of town was strewn with ramshackle houses without windows or doors. Skinny, filthy children played in mud puddles in the grassless front “lawns” to stay cool. Garbage and filth were everywhere. Working class people began to get on and off the bus at each corner. Women dressed in hotel uniforms and men with lunch pails. We stopped worrying about where we were for a few minutes and sat silently, taking in our surroundings.

Before long, a bus headed in the opposite direction approached our bus and we managed to piece together a word or two of Spanish to let the driver know we needed to get on the other bus. By the time we reached our beautiful hotel with comfortable beds, swimming pool and spa, I’m pretty sure my girls had learned a very valuable lesson. I know I had.

Fast forward a couple of years and there I was, walking the boards at Atlantic City, New Jersey, United States of America. Home of the brave and free. Land of opportunity. Anyone who has been to an east coast shore town knows that the shops and restaurants are full of foreigners, working for the summer at the beach because the opportunities are many. Several of the stores, restaurants and attractions had “HELP WANTED” signs posted on their doors. Why, then, do you suppose there was a beggar on every block?

With the exception of the guy in a wheelchair who had about 12 inches of body and a head and arms, every single one of them could stand, walk, talk…. Some of them beat on 5 gallon buckets to earn their hand-outs (one who was particularly talented and could have easily had a real job playing the drums) while others played a trumpet or harmonica. Then there was the one-man-band guy – he was actually semi-entertaining. I found myself giving money to those who where at least trying to entertain or "earn" the spare change that was filling their buckets.

What’s my point? What IS my point? I guess the point is this… I learned that although I tend to have a bleeding heart when it comes to some things, I still believe that if you can help yourself – you should. You owe it to yourself. People say it takes courage to beg. Perhaps that’s true at first, but I didn’t see a single beggar in A.C. who looked as though he was embarrassed or ashamed of what he was doing. Many of them standing right in front of establishments with "HELP WANTED" signs posted. I suspect it gets easier and easier until the person somehow feels justified in what he or she is doing. In fact, I actually had quite an encounter with a guy who goes by the name of “Tony Pots and Pans”. This guy was quite entertaining as he beat on his buckets, bowls and pans. Occasionally he would shout out something while he played that made the crowd laugh and each time we passed, there was a crowd of 20-25 people standing near him to listen and "donate" to the cause. I had dropped a dollar into his bucket each time we went by, which was every night of our stay. On the last night of our stay, as I walked by his “perch” for the 8th or 9th time, I took out my camera to get a picture of him beating on his five-gallon buckets and bowls. Mr. Pots and Pans wasn’t the slightest bit ashamed to stop drumming and tell me that it would cost $10 to take a photo. Where I come from, we don’t call that courage – we call it gall.