Like most New Yorkers, I have felt caught between cynicism and guilt by the appeals of the ubiquitous panhandlers on the city's streets. I thought I had found a solution to their problem and mine this winter when the McCauley Mission on Lafayette Street sent me some little cards to pass out to the hungry homeless offering them shelter. Instead of the quarter that I suspected would only feed a substance-abuse habit, I could hand them a card and the promise of three nights' lodging, food and clothing, counselling and further assistance.
With one exception, none of the 20-some men to whom I offered the card seemed particularly interested in the offer of an opportunity to change their circumstances.
I was reminded of Alfred Doolittle, the philosopher dustman in George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion, who says: 'I ain't pretending to be deserving. I'm undeserving; and I mean to go on being undeserving. I like it; and that's the truth. ... Undeserving poverty is my line'.
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