stevenchristopher

I remember being a very, very young child arguing with my father because he wouldn’t give me money to put in the bent and dirty coffee cup held out by the equally bent and dirty panhandler. “He’ll just buy booze with it,” my father said with finality. My heart just about broke. I felt such compassion for the old beggar, and there was a painful, almost shameful awareness of the beautiful home and room full of toys I’d be returning to. There was something very wrong about the whole situation, but my child’s mind couldn’t understand it; instead, my child’s heart cracked a bit.

I’ve always been inclined to give money to panhandlers–or “stemmers”, as they call themselves. They don’t beg; they “stem”. Even when I myself was homeless, which is how I learned the lingo, I would give what I could. If that day found me particularly flush, I’d buy some food for the person. Because my father was right: most stemmers stem for alcohol or drugs It’s always a better bet to bring him or her to McDonald’s or something. At least then you know your charity is being used properly.

A couple of thoughts arise in response to this whole topic. The job I got here in Burlington finds me out sweeping up butts and trash, emptying trash and recycling bins, and otherwise keeping “as clean as Disney World” the four-block area of Church Street, which serves as the veritable heart of Burlington. As with any city’s downtown area, Church Street is where all of Burlington’s homeless, addicted, and otherwise marginalized people congregate. It’s got a vibrant semi-bohemian vibe that appeals to that facet of my personality that manifested itself with dyed blue hair and multiple facial piercings during my early adolescence.

A lot of folks stem on Church Street, but there’s one in particular that really sticks out to me. She’s a young woman, probably in her mid-20s, partial to flowing hippie skirts and poet tops. She’s out there every day, for hours each day, always with a different sign. She’s a smart girl, apparently, because instead of the standard, “Spare change for the homeless”, she chooses whimsical phrases like, “Kindness is never lost.”

I look at this healthy woman, this woman who spends as much time each day begging for money as she would at any actual job, and I wonder why she chooses to live like she does. To anyone visiting Burlington, she’s an appealing outlet for charitable urges: clean-looking, pretty, young. Not bleary-eyed, unshaven and reeking of booze like most of the other stemmers. She must make a killing, honestly. I heard her the other day telling some unsuspecting tourist a fiction about a broken-down car and plans for college in California. Today she told a guy about an abusive ex-boyfriend and involuntary homelessness. Which is true? Either?

Tonight I saw her all dressed up, arm-in-arm with a couple of equally well-dressed kids, uproariously laughing in a familiar camaraderie that belied friendships of long-standing. Apparently, she’s a professional stemmer. A con-woman. I was wondering why she didn’t just get a job with all the time she devotes to encouraging strangers to give her money only to realize that stemming is her job.

Perhaps the spirit in which charity is given is far more important than the spirit in which it’s received. Maybe it doesn’t matter whether the spare change goes to booze, crack-cocaine, or baby formula.

Maybe no kindness is ever lost.