Because of Brenda

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Originally uploaded by Travelling Broke And Ugly.

I have moved into the land of plenty. Portland doesn’t get much ritzier than NW 23rd Avenue. Jaguars and BMWs are the norm; trendy boutiques and old-money dining establishments and Vespa dealerships and day spas line the streets. In many ways, it is quite lovely. Well-attired people of all ages live life at a civilized pace; they treat one another with dignity and good humor (when they’re not behind the wheel). There’s a distinct lack of “poverty mentality”; people smile at one another, and the storekeepers are generous with their time and insight. At its best, everyone radiates a certain sense of benign security; at worst, they slde into superificiality and and air of entitlement.

It is Friday night, and people with fancy clothes and nice hair clog the streets. A weekend sidewalk sale has begun, and the stores have put clearance tables out on the street, selling wonderful things at a steep discount. Its hard just to walk; people browse the sales, and spill out of restaurants holding drinks; they dine on lavish desserts at sidewalk tables. They are all beautiful. The whole street is bursts with midsummer abundance.

And then there’s Brenda.

Brenda is panhandling outside the Assistance League Thrift Store. She is painfully thin, but well-groomed, and she has a gentle air. There is a silver dish placed in front of her on the sidewalk. She has a cardboard sign that says she is a cancer patient. Nearby is a grocery cart full of her stuff. On the back of the sign, where she can see it, she is writing a prayer. I know this because I stopped to ask if she needed anything. She’d like a room. Fair enough.

She said she would also appreciate a slice of pepperoni pizza, so I went up to Escape From New York and got her a slice, and some lemonade, and brought them back to her, along with $5 for the room fund. We talked a little bit. She has nice eyes. She said, “I do all right; people can tell I’m not a drunk” and “I don’t worry; I know I’m with God.”

If we could all know that.

I walked away crying. I had forgotten to tell her that asking for help does a favor for others; it gives them the opportunity to be generous. She had said, “God bless you.”

I was tormented by the desserts and the shoes and the fancy sunglasses, all around me: how can people eat and shop and consume in such high fashion, when right in front of them, someone is asking for help? I know I am not the only one seeing the angel on the sidewalk. And…OK, I’m angry, so I know that this uncomprehending frustration with the world is the next thing requiring attention.

And so, I felt. I noticed that seeing my fellow upscale shoppers and eaters as different from Brenda only infuriated me. However, seeing them as similar brought peace, a sense of resolution. Really, none of us are that different from this skinny, quiet lady. We all hold the potential of one day being sick—maybe not on the street, but certainly depending on others—and of having very little time left. The guy with the clip-on ear phone is Brenda. The woman with the frosted hair and the scared eyes, is Brenda. The round-faced twenty-year-olds with the trendy halter tops and spike heels, are all Brenda. If we are fortunate to live long enough, we will all one day need help; and no matter how much money we have, or how many dinners we have enjoyed, we will all rely on the innate kindness of others.

And we give, not as some superstition to conjure away want or poverty, but because we see ourself in others. When it’s your turn to dine out, you dine out; when it’s your turn to ask for help, you ask for help. When you know how fortunate you are, and how fleeting and empty that is, you help.

Really, I helped Brenda not one bit. She helped me. And she’ll help anyone who looks at her, reflecting our vulnerability, and our basic grace.