WWYD?

A few minutes ago, I was in the middle of a blog entry about poetry when someone knocked at the door: the first time a few quiet taps, the second a little louder, and as I went down the stairs to answer the door—slow as I am—louder still. 

My partner Ann’s due to come home soon, and I thought she might have locked herself out. Otherwise, I might have stayed put.

An African American woman who says she used to rent a house a few blocks from here (I think I recognized her, but I might be fooling myself) said she’d had to move when the rent soared and then moved again and the same thing happened and now she and her daughter are homeless. She told me they lived in shelters for a while and are now on a list for supported housing. In the meantime, she said they’re staying in a hotel, and she was asking for money. Her story’s plausible. Rents and homelessness are soaring in Seattle. Of course, she might have been lying.I gave her five dollars. 

What should I have done? What would you do (WWYD)? 

We used to have two nearby crack houses, and people would stop here regularly. At first, we listened to the stories and gave money, but we felt like suckers and soon stopped giving, and they stopped coming by.

Once in those years, a black woman, maybe in her fifties, pounded on the front door after dark one night, saying her house had been broken into, and she was afraid. She was frantic. I called 911, and the person on the phone confirmed that the police had been called to this woman’s address. We invited her in and gave her tea, hoping that might help her calm down. Before long, it became clear our visitor wasn’t leaving, so I called 911 again and the person who answered the call told me to keep trying to get her to leave. 

I kept trying, to no avail, and called 911 again. The woman who answered again encouraged me to work harder, but then our visitor started screaming in the background, and the woman asked, “Is that her?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll send someone right over.”

When the police came in the front door, they recognized our visitor immediately and called her by name. They told her they’d been to her house and it was safe, and they’d take her there and make sure she’s safe. She calmed and went with them. As one policeman walked out the door with her, the other said to Ann and me, “We get calls for this woman all the time. She’s paranoid. You should never let her in your home.”

Easy for him to say, but what if she really were in trouble? It happens. The two weeks prior, I’d been on jury duty for a first-degree rape case. The woman was allegedly (I think she was, but it wasn’t totally clear) raped in our neighborhood late at night and had run to a door and pounded until a couple let her in and called 911. Besides, in a way she was in trouble. She was scared. Terrified.

Ann and I have decided to take the risk of being scammed rather than risk not serving someone who’s in trouble. We have so many homeless and so many people with untreated mental illnesses in this city. I believe the big answer is to change the unjust system, but what do I do in the meantime?

According to the gospel writer Matthew, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says, “Give to the one who asks you” (Matthew 5:42). That’s what I’ll do for now.

I’ll also advocate for systemic change, but too many people are hurting right now. One person is too many. My $5 didn’t do a lot whether or not she was in trouble, but if she was, maybe the human connection helped a little at least.