hi my name is chris makarsky

Spare any change?

I was approached by five different homeless folk on my way home last night. Each recited some variation on the question of whether I had any spare change, and if so, whether I’d be willing to part with it on their behalf. I stuck with the same strategy each time, mumbling something about not having any money and heading on my way.

It’s not often that I carry around loose change, so it’s typically a legitimate excuse. But I did have some last night, yet I still didn’t give anything away. It’s just too easy to argue that it’s my money, and I shouldn’t feel required to provide handouts every time someone comes up and asks for “whatever I can spare.”

Understand that I’m grateful no one has yet attempted to forcibly remove anything from my person. And I acknowledge that I’ve had plenty of advantages in life that distances me from the homeless situation. Regardless, it’s not cool being hassled every time I step outside. If only the city would do something about it.

The San Francisco treat

San Francisco’s homeless problem consistently ranks as one of the nation’s worst, if not the worst. A few years ago, the San Francisco Chronicle investigated some of the reasons and affects of the problem, but ultimately provided few solutions.

We trip over them on the sidewalk every day. We curse, hand them a dollar, or don’t. We feel pity, guilt and rage at their presence. The city spends $200 million a year trying to get homeless people off the streets and into a better way of life - but over 20 years, the problem has only gotten worse.

The more able of the homeless find their way into shelters, counseling and housing programs. But the most chronically indigent, called the hard core, steadfastly refuse most help and stay outside. These 3,000 to 5,000 homeless at the very bottom are the most visible, and they give the city its dubious distinction of having what many call the worst homeless problem in the country.

So it’s a recognized problem, and the city spends gobs of taxpayer dollars every year to mitigate an issue that only gets worse each year. Not that it’s a simple problem: there’s a sizable coalition defending the rights of homeless, preventing any type of Guiliani-esque purge. And the city’s mild weather attracts migrants from New York, Seattle, Chicago, and even Washington D.C.

But if we can’t depend on the government and Mother Nature for help, what is there to do? Without everyone moving to the suburbs, that is.

Tough love

The number of people begging for money really bugged me when I first moved to San Francisco. Realizing even then that I couldn’t make a difference myself, I still felt twinges of guilt when I passed the lines of people camped on the sidewalks, pleading their case for monetary sympathies. So I gave occasionally, soothing my conscience with a buck here and there.

Then a guy asked me for some money one day. He said he needed food, and I had a box of leftovers from an earlier lunch with me. I handed him the box, thinking I was doing something good — but the guy threw the food on the ground after he opened it, and then demanded cash instead. He didn’t even hand the box back to me, and I got salad dressing all over my shoe. That was fun.

I’ve since learned that there are plenty of kitchens and resources in this city willing to help if someone’s truly needy. At least three shelters are within a mile of my place. I memorized their locations and sometimes give people an address when they asked for money. I never got thanked.

I eventually settled on a tough love policy: you can’t have my money because dammit, I pay taxes that go towards this shit, and let’s be fucking honest, you’re just going to use it on drugs and alcohol anyway. Or maybe that’s just tough. I’m honestly not sure where the love fits in.

The moral quandary ignored

Here’s a partial list of homeless in the area whom I’ve come to know and avoid:

• The guy who squats at the top of the Stockton tunnel stairwell, making the already-narrow passageway even more awkward
• The guy who hangs out on Geary and accuses any moving object of being racist. He usually crashes around Post.
• The guy in Union Square who balances on the edge of an egg crate. Yeah, that’s it. He’ll stick out a cup for donations as people walk by, as he apparently believes standing at a slight angle is worth something.
• And of course, the losers who openly claim they’re going to use the money for alcohol, weed, crack, whatever. I’m all for self-deprecation, sarcasm, realism, social experiments whatever, but yeah, you’re not getting my money.

At least once per day I pass by a regular on my route. We go through the same motions as the day previous: he’ll ask for money and I’ll deny the request. Undeterred, he’ll start the game anew the next time we meet.

Seriously, it’s lame. That’s my only point.

Yet I’m inconsistent. I was walking home after grabbing a coffee earlier today and I gave a woman near my building the change I had. My paltry contribution wasn’t enough to even buy a McDonald’s burger, but she nevertheless smiled and told me that God loves me.

And I guess I felt a little better.