I arrived at the Durham Co-op Market Monday morning, Jan. 2, for coffee and to finish some writing. As I approached the front door, a middle-aged black man stopped me and asked for “spare change.”
Little did he know, I was four days from pay day and had absolutely no money. I was living on a credit card for the next four days. I told him I was out of cash and kept walking.
As I entered the sliding-glass doors, one of the cashiers asked, “Is that man still out there asking for money?”
I said “Yes. But he’s not posing a threat to anyone. He’s just standing on the side and asking for spare change.”
She then informed me she had already spoken with him once and that the manager had instructed her to call the police.
I said, “Sis, please do NOT call the police. You call the police and that man could lose his life just for asking people for ‘spare change’ this morning.” There were customers standing in line, but I was very adamant about not calling the police, because as I shared with her “that’s exactly how black lives become hashtags.”
In reality, she was really just doing her job, as she was told. My job, however, was to speak up for the poor (and possibly, to save that man’s life). The last thing we need here in Durham is another Frank Clark or Jesus Huerta.
“Look, don’t call the police,” I said. “I’ll go out there and talk to him.” So I did.
I walked out by the dumpster and said “Yo, Bro. They’re about to call the police on you. I’m sorry, but you can’t stand over here.” I suggested he switch locations at the convenience store across the street. He said, “Nah, man. I can’t.”
When you live in poverty, each and every day is “hard work.” The hustle. The grind. The mental and emotional strain, just to eat.
I apologized to him for not having anything to give, except the 72 cents that was buried among lint in my front pocket. When I reached out to give him my spare change he said, “Brother, I don’t want to do this. I used to be a working man. I still have my pride, you know. My VA (Veterans Affairs) check doesn’t get here until the 5th. I’m only asking for spare change because this is the only option I have right now. I tried to get a job in there, and other places around here, too. No one’s hiring homeless Black veterans right now.”
I shared with him how I was homeless myself at one time – slept in my car for a week before Camryn and Ernest Smith, thankfully, opened up there home to me while their daughter was away in college. I informed him that I too was a veteran, and someone who had been charged with a felony.
I know exactly how it feels to be denied employment opportunities, even with a college degree. I know exactly how it feels to depend on “favor and good will.” I know how it feels to be hungry, too. Like hell! People look at you like you’re “less than human.” Mind you, I was a college graduate who could actually articulate myself and be halfway charming. A lot of folk will feed hungry dogs before they feed hungry people, especially homeless Black people.
I went inside the market and fixed him a warm to-go plate of stewed chicken, beans and rice, cabbage, and a half sweet potato. I asked him if he wanted to come inside and sit down with me, but he was worried that he might be recognized. I insisted again, but realized the best thing to do was to respect his concern. I brought the food out, and fought back my tears.
For those who think poor people are “lazy” and do not want to work, please, stop! When you live in poverty, each and every day is “hard work.” The hustle. The grind. The mental and emotional strain, just to eat. Trust me, I can tell you from personal experience, there’s nothing “lazy” about surviving poverty, especially when you’re a descendant of the same people whose free slave labor was responsible for building this empire.
Come on, Durham. You don’t call the police on someone because they’re poor. You ask them how you can help and be a blessing.
Lamont Lilly was the 2016 Workers World Party vice-presidential candidate. In 2015 he was an Indy Week “Citizen Award” winner for his activism and journalism.