Ever since I watched a “homeless” man walk out of an Exxon Mobil with a case of Corona and pack of Marlboro Lights, coincidentally purchased with the twenty dollar bill my father handed to him less than five minutes prior, I have had mixed feelings about what it means to be a good samaritan.

And things will probably stay that way.

One would think that in a city where the words “square footage” and “curfew” are practically Greek, finding a job—however far from ideal it may be—would not pose an issue. But in these days of cost-cutting, stream-lining and inevitable down-sizing, it has become virtually impossible for me to even turn a street corner, without wondering why it is that the disheveled man or woman who sleeps there must call it home.

And in a place like New York City, there are lots of street corners.
Trust me.

Having come from rather humble begginings myself, I am firmly of the view that – with hard work– one can steer one’s future in a direction of his or her own choosing. That said, I recognize how much of life is purely circumstantial. So it comes as no surprise that with every change in scenery that lies around a New York City street corner, an unresolved conflict between reason and compassion awaits me.

:::::::: But I’m comfortable with that :::::::::::
:::::::::::::::::: and here’s why ::::::::::::::::::::::

Two of the most influential people in my life, though quite similar in nature, are complete opposites when it comes to decision making. Put simply, one thinks solely with his head, while the other thinks solely with his heart. For a long time, I have wondered which one of them has “got it right,” but after several years of observance, the answer is very clearly—

—neither.

Both of these people may have reasons for confining all decision-making faculties to one distinct corporal region, but when it really comes down to it, my guess is that they are both, quite simply, lazy.

Science, history, and even present day politics have shown that, more often than not, the heart wins over the head, — and that that’s more-so a function of cognitive limitations than it is of willful benefit. That being the case, then purely “rational” decision making must yield consistently “irrational” results—-since it seems unreasonable to expect a strictly formulaic response to the otherwise impulsive actions of others, to categorically constitute the “right” response under

any
given
situation.

At the risk of going all “Calvin and Hobbes” on you, I’ll just offer a brief synopsis: If people really cared about “getting it right”, then they wouldn’t actively choose between reason and emotion. As human beings we are equipped to instinctively weigh both traits amidst a series of circumstances, and we should let nature run its course, however “irrational” that may seem. 

That’s my view at least.
But I’m not sure if it’s really gotten me anywhere just yet…

Two weeks ago I set out on a daunting yet pleasurable journey to find a dress to wear to a friend’s wedding. As I strolled down Park Avenue with my Ipod in hand, I watched myself slip into the persona of a true New Yorker.

For a seemingly oblivious young woman, I *usually* pay an awful lot of attention to detail. But that day I was on a mission, and for the first time in over a year and a half, I walked with the distant and outwardly disinterested gait of most of the street goers who, on any other day, I would have intently observed…

But let’s be honest.
That didn’t last long.

After a 40 minute shopping stint, I found the perfect dress and decided to call it a day.  Having checked off the buredensome “buy dress” line item on my mental to-do list, I immediately regressed back to my steady state of wonderment—overtaken by a deluge of (more substantive but decisively random) thoughts, yet peacefully attentive to my surroundings. I began to retrace my steps home from 5th Avenue and 18th street, thankfully in an atmosphere that felt a little less like the Truman Show.

While following my shadow alongside the towering Credit Suisse building, my focus shifted to a round object at the west end of 23rd street.  As I neared closer, what had at first glance appeared to be a scruffy mutt lounging on a colorful blanket, turned out to be a short-haired, freckle-doused homeless woman, toothless and covered in tattoos. Her sign read:

I’m 2 months pregnant and trying to get back to Houston Texas to see my family. I need money for the bus. Please help.

It was a sign that made me stop in my tracks after turning that street corner. Not because it was witty, and certainly not because I liked the handwriting. But because it seemed like a reasonable and heartfelt request—-and to be perfectly honest, I, too, must have had “Texas on my mind.”

So after several seconds of soul searching, I reached into my wallet and pulled out a fiver, folded the bill in half, and tip-toed back around the side of the building I had already passed several times that day. Although the imagery of the Corona Cowboy who duped my father over a decade ago had never seemed so vivid, I was intent on proceeding with my little act of kindness—– after performing a bit of reconnaissance, that is.

If this woman truly did have family in Houston, she’d have a clear answer as to where they lived, wouldn’t she? I hoped she would. So I set my germophobia aside for a minute and gently tapped her on the shoulder… 

Yolanda: So where in Houston does your family live?

Homeless lady: Huh?

Yolanda: You know, what part of Houston are you trying to get to, like the neighborhood?

Homeless lady: Ohhhh. Welll, to be honest, I don’t know. See, my husband is from Houston, and I’m just trying to move back there with him. It just seems like a much better place, you know, the people are just a lot nicer than they are out here. It’s got to be better. You know?

Yolanda: Yeah, so you’re trying to get to Houston, but you don’t know where you’re going?

Homeless lady: *Mumbling*

That’s when the skeptic in me took over, and I just about gave up hope. Nearly sure the woman was lying, I figured I’d cut my losses and head home to check off the next pending item on my mental to-do list: “pack for Madrid.”

So, visibly disappointed, I handed over the money and, after a monotone “good luck,” was on my way back uptown. As I turned that corner for the fourth time that day, the woman belted (as loud as her slurred speech would allow, of course):

Homeless lady: Thank you, honey. Are you from Houston?

Yolanda: Yeah…

Homeless lady: I think it’s called Third Ward? Fifth Ward? Something like that. My husband’s right across the street in the Duane Reade. You can ask him if you want. Sorry. I didn’t know. Thanks, honey.

And at that point, I felt my heart sink into my chest. It was a kind of discomfort I felt compelled to endure, kind of like when visiting a loved one in the hospital. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself.

Here was a woman, dissatisfied in her own right, justifiably idealistic about her future, but noticeably blind as to where she was going. And I wasn’t going to tell her, either. I wasn’t going to question why she’d prefer the crime-ridden, deserted streets of Third Ward to, yes, her equally suboptimal—-yet ostensibly more promising—- current situation. Because it was clear this was a decision she had made with her heart.

And sometimes those are the best kind.
Depending on circumstances.

For the entirety of my existence, I have wondered whether I am one of those people who is ruled by her head or her heart. I’d like to think that it’s both, but I’m not sure.

And I’m certainly not alone.

 
______________________________________

Your Heart is an Empty Room by Death Cab for Cutie

All you see is where else you could be
When you’re at home
And out on the street
Are so many possibilities to not be alone

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