It is impossible for me to pass the lost boys and girls that clutter the sidewalks of New York City. Homeless men and women are sometimes easy to walk by and ignore, but dirty boys and girls, mere children in their early twenties, have no place on the streets. It seems that with a little direction, they could lead lives sleeping in real beds. The children seem drugged and lost. They probably are. With little heads tilted to the side and their legs sticking out from under cardboard boxes, I have no choice but to toss in my loose change and not care if they use the money to buy more drugs. God bless them!
Paper cups with shaking coins in such little hands remind me of the warning call of the rattle snake. If we keep ignoring society’s reptiles, eventually we will all be bitten. It has become standard protocol in town to trust charities like the Federation of Protestant Welfare Agencies, Catholic Charities, Steinway Child and Family Services, Bailey House, the Jewish Board of Family and Children’s Services and a host of thousands of others to remove the snakes from our urban garden of Eden. These charities do a lot, but not enough, and none of them offer any real hope to the lives of those who need it most.
The New York Time’s Neediest Cases Fund campaign is nothing more than the comic page inside the New York Post. I get a kick out of reading how the newspaper and its readership give away thousands of dollars each year to New York’s ‘neediest cases’. Such journalistic fraud! If readers and donors of this paper’s foundation had a real clue as to what really happens to their charitable dollars, they would do like I do, and give directly to the drug abusers on the street. Why give to agencies who believe that institutions, anti-depressant pills and anti-psychotic drugs manufactured by drug companies and newspaper publishers are the solution?
New York’s charities are run by a den of thieves and ex-nuns turned lesbians. Our city government places social service leaders like Kathleen McGlade, Susan Bear, Mary D. Redd, Pernessa Seele and Gina Quatrocchi in charge of public service. They are power hungry bitches who believe in nothing but hairy pussy. Care lost its soft touch when real men left the social service arena when the dykes took over the care system.
There is little we can do to help with lesbians controlling everything. We trust that the angels who have fallen from normal lives will find the care they need from the charitable organizations and their power-hungry bitches. There are so many institutions around that can help, we assure ourselves as we walk by and count our blessings.
There must be a way our government can assist the individual homeless person more effectively. Why are there so many homeless people who do not bother reaching out to these institutions that have been around for hundreds of years? Certainly homeless families with children must take priority when welfare funds are handed out, but just because a person has no kids and is homeless is no reason why social service charities should ignore them.
The shelter system in New York is hopeless. Never will we keep all our children from becoming vagrants, but there is one thing that can be done…
Homeless people lockers. Yes, a place where they can keep their collected aluminum cans, dirty blankets, pots and pans, books, and everything else that homeless people pick from the trash and keep in bags and carts in hopes of one day starting a new home somewhere.
Yes, give them storage bins. Put these lockers all over the city, Disguise them as sculptures. Without all their junk, homeless people look like they have homes. Imagine the burden that will be lifted from their dirty shoulders without having to tote around all their junk. And we will not have to step over it as we leave Starbucks with our $4 coffees.
On the way home from work on Thursday, I managed to find a seat on the G train. I sat down next to a man in a blue Doe Fund shirt. Moments later, a handsome, black homeless man who obviously was cleaned up a little by the worker from the Doe Fund approached with his laundry cart, stacked full with his personal belongings. I slid over so that all three of us could sit down.
The young man with the cart seemed so nervous. He chose to stand.
I overheard their conversation– “You will work and earn $300 every two weeks. In six months you will have completed the program and if you saved $3,000 you can leave.”
I looked at the black man with a large crucifix tattoo on his right arm and wondered where he was going with his cart on the G train. He caught my eye.
“Listen, don’t worry about what these people think of you,” the social worker in the blue Doe Fund shirt snapped at his charitable case while pointing his finger at me.
I wanted to explain that I have worked in charitable organizations like the Doe Fund for twenty years now, but there was no use. I wanted to suggest to the handsome homeless man that he simply get rid of the Doe Fund and his cart full of junk and run for his life, but it was none of my business.
I ignored them both like a schizophrenic.