The goodness of a white cardboard box
One afternoon when my ex-husband and I were dating, we were stopped at a red light in Seattle when we were approached by a man holding a cardboard sign asking for change. I rolled down my window and handed him a dollar, and a heated discussion ensued inside the car that ended with a few well-timed expletives and the door slamming behind me. I stood there on the sidewalk, already shivering in the drizzle, wondering how in the world I could be so desperately in love with such a heartless piece of shit. He eventually coaxed me back into the car and we made up, but this was the first of many disappointing discussions we would have on the subject of homelessness, charity, and giving. He was such a practical man, always dissecting the pros and cons of any given decision and analyzing the potential benefits and downfalls. As useful and sensible as it was, his cerebral approach would absolutely infuriate me and our debates invariably ended with me in tears, and a confused Ammon shaking his head at the emotional instability of his wife.
When I was fifteen I ran away from home, lost in a haze of drug use and depression that left me incapable of doing the things a normal high school girl would do. I could barely attend my classes, much less football games and school dances, because I was completely consumed with trying not to kill myself. Life was so hopeless for me that the choice to leave home was a simple one: I could either stay in that world of hurt and anger and crippling depression, or I could run as fast and far as I could. I took off, and I ended up living with a group of runaways who slept in a camp under the freeway and roamed the streets of Capitol Hill during the day. Everyone had a horrific story of why they couldn’t go back to their homes and families. We were all so young, and we were all so scared. We were harmless- I never once saw any of my friends in a verbal altercation, much less carrying a weapon- and yet we were routinely witnesses to the very worst side of humanity. We had bottles thrown at us from open car windows, every insult you could ever imagine spat out of the mouths of passersby, and the police constantly telling us to move on, no loitering here as my wan and exhausted group shuffled from one side of the street to the other. It was clear that to the working, ‘civilized’ world we were less than human, worth even less sympathy than the stray dog shivering in the park. We were despised, although for most of us, that was nothing new.
Although the abuse and hatred became familiar, part of the daily routine, there were also some of the most breathtaking acts of kindness. A $20 bill, folded and pressed into the palm of my hand by a quickly passing stranger. A bag of take-out, still hot, set at our feet. A new jacket hung gently around my friend’s bony shoulders. What fascinated me was that these anonymous donors never once stayed to talk to us. While an older gentleman might stand with us and lecture us about the merits of holding a job and contributing to society, he invariably left us only with the wet thwack of phlegm spat at our shoes before he walked away. The acts of kindness we received were never paired with instructions on what to do with the things we were given. These people appeared for only an instant, and without exception disappeared into the busy street before we were even able to voice our thanks.
I was lucky. My stay on the streets was relatively short; I was back home and trying to resume a normal life within a couple of weeks. But the sides of humanity I witnessed, both terrible and heartbreakingly beautiful, have never left me. I will never forget how the most minute act of kindness can change someone’s view of the world. And I will never forget how easy it is for a person to avert their eyes and turn you invisible. And how if enough people turn you invisible, it begins to define you until not even your heartbeat or regular intakes of breath can convince you that you’re still human.
I have changed a lot since then. I have sobered up, had a family, owned homes. I’ve become one of the ‘contributing members of society.’ Although I still roll down my window at street corners and place a dollar into the outstretched hand, I’ve become less hurt by the people in my life who don’t choose to do the same. I understand that everyone has a valid opinion on the subject of who deserves what kind of charity, and I’ve learned to respect those that are different from mine. I allow you your beliefs, and am grateful when you allow me mine. But I’ve noticed that the people who are closest to me share, at least in part, my unwavering belief in giving. I have been amazed by the generosity of the people who I love, even more so because the discussion of charity is one that rarely comes up in conversation. Without ever having discussed it, somehow the little family I have created has been peopled by those with the most beautiful and generous of hearts.
A week ago I was out to dinner with one of my closest friends. It was freezing out, and we rushed from the restaurant to my car, shoulders hunched against the biting wind and our leftovers clutched to our chests. We cut through a parking lot and passed by a woman of indeterminate age, bundled in layers of tattered clothes and pushing a shopping cart full of what looked like garbage. Our conversation fell silent as we passed this woman, watching as she struggled to push her cart up onto the sidewalk. We had walked in silence for about a minute when my friend suddenly stopped. She turned around and ran back towards the woman, chasing her up the sidewalk until she caught up to her. I watched as they talked for a moment, and then my friend walked back to where I stood waiting. Her white box of leftovers was gone. As we reached my car and huddled in the darkness waiting for the engine to warm up, I wondered how in the world I could so desperately love this sweet, amazing friend sitting beside me. But how could I not. She, along with all of the other incredible friends I am blessed to know, is exactly the kind of human I wish we all could be.








