Tonight's Poet Corner: Introspection

Tonight, I am not going to talk too much about my life. I am not going to go into too much detail about my first summer class (which was, of course, fun and worthwhile and it ended a couple days ago), or my work (which is fine), or my relationship (which is and has always been awesome). I don't want to talk about my catastrophic anxiety or my existentialist nonsense or scratch away at my cerebrum hoping that something creative bubbles up as a result.

Instead, I want to tell a story of what happened to me today. I'm not going to hammer a message into it. I'm not going to influence any sort of "moral." I simply want to tell a story.

I am not "poor." At least, not in the societal sense of the definition. However, I don't make a lot of money. I don't have a lot of savings. I do have to scrape by some months after I pay off student loans, bills, and other credit build-up. My income, in fact, does not allow me to pay an adequate amount of rent, so my fiancée has to pick up a lot of the slack. I am, of course, going for my teaching credential not only because I want to be a teacher, but also because I'll eventually bring in some more money. I am on a part-time schedule, though, meaning I won't have my credential for another two years. Thank God I got enough grants.

Today, I was walking home from work, when about halfway there, I noticed a middle-aged man standing on the street corner. He was holding a sign that claimed he was a veteran and needed help, and he was asking for money. Now, a decent amount of cars were stopping and drivers were handing him cash, but I was walking right by this man. And I almost went by without doing anything. I changed my mind a few steps away from him.

Now, I'm one of those people who doesn't carry around a lot of cash. This is because A. I have a bad habit of not carrying cash and relying on my cards, and B. I try not to carry too much cash because I'm more inclined to spend it without considering my bank account. Still, I had to have something, anything, for this veteran. I scrounged around in my purse, my wallet, and my change pouch. I came up with a penny. Just one penny.

And I was going to give it to him.

I walked over to him as he gave a rock on sign with his hand to a passing car. I cleared my throat, got up my courage, and said, "Excuse me, sir?"

He looked at me. He looked, initially, to be in good shape. However, it did look like he had been put through the wringer. Looking at him, and then hearing how he talked, reminded me a bit of a recovering drug addict or an alcoholic. Chances are, being a veteran probably psychologically troubled him, and he may have turned to substances as a method of coping. This, of course, is all speculation on my part, and I could very well be wrong.

I sighed and continued. "Sir, I'm one of those jerks who doesn't carry around any cash. But I wanted to give you something. It's all I have right now." I presented him with the penny, a mere fragment of what awaited me in my still admittedly meager bank account. "I hope it helps."

Gingerly pressing the penny into the palm of the veteran's hand, I expected him to thank me, scoff at me, or simply nod and turn away. He did none of those. He looked at me with a kind of expression that was hard to read at first. It was as if he was attempting to determine what kind of person I was. A young, almost-twenty-five-year-old woman, wearing an argyle-pattern shirt and brown slacks and shoes, with a pin-loaded lanyard finished off with a dangling, fraying Copperfield's tag. I obviously was cleaned up, well fed, and employed. But I guess, somehow, he saw me as something different. He saw me as someone he had an obligation to, not as someone to rely on.

So he said, "You know what? If that's all you have...take this."

To my shock, he proceeded to reach into his pocket, pull out the wad of money he had collected throughout the day, and handed me a one dollar bill, pressing it into my palm just as I had pressed my coin into his. I was stunned. I shook my head. I tried to give it back. "You need it more than I do."

"You know what?" he asked again. His speech was somewhat halted, a bit strained, like it was hard for me to speak. But he was coherent and remarkably genuine. "I want you to have it. I was in the Marines. My job was to serve this country. Help poor people like you."

I couldn't believe it. Here I was, standing on the corner of Grand and Third, holding a one dollar bill after I had given this struggling veteran a penny. I had tried abysmally to make a difference in his life, and in return, he was giving me something of literally ninety-nine times more value in return. All because he had been a valiant soldier who felt a duty to the people he protected. As far as I was concerned, he was much more inclined to disregard his condition for the sake of recognizing and improving mine. He was destitute, most likely homeless, and probably had dealt with some sickness and a lot of trauma in his life. And he was giving me more than I had given him.

Hardly any other human act had affected me in this way before, and I struggled to hold back emotion. I wanted to give the dollar back, badly. I knew he needed it. But I knew he wouldn't budge, and I wasn't going to argue it. Instead, in a flimsy demonstration of attempted respect, I stood upright, saluted, and said, hoping he wouldn't notice how choked up I was, "Thank you, sir."

Like a true Marine, he snapped into position - his elbow at the proper angle, his feet the proper distance apart, his back straight and his hand firm. He saluted back at me, a far better symbol of his spirit than I had done of mine. For a moment, I thought I saw him in uniform.

It is truly mind-boggling to me how people could simply drive past this man on the street, holding up a ragged cardboard sign and begging for help, and not see him as the remarkable human being he was - a human being eager to sacrifice his well-being for the sake of millions of others.

I began to walk away. The only other request he shouted at me was, "Hey! Don't use that on alcohol, you hear?" I promised him that I wouldn't. And I didn't. I converted that dollar into coins to use for laundry - coins we badly needed in my apartment. My throat kept constricting the more I thought about what this man had done for me, and how the system had so badly failed him yet he was still determined to make a difference in people's lives.

I don't know the veteran's name. I don't know where he is from, what his family is like, or what he likes to do. I don't know when he served or where. I don't know his age, his favorite color, or the dreams he had once had as a child. Whether or not he'll read this, I'll never know. But know this, sir - you certainly made a difference in my life. And I won't forget it.

I hope that a veteran, in more ways than one, has made a difference in your life as well.

Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone.