Imported From Bashing Crosses

A Bed of Rags and Tears

The aroma of coffee entices you, filling your heart with the nostalgia built by a life of happy times. Outside, gentle squeak of swings are like a violin calling. You run down the stairs, every step plunging into the welcoming hug of the shag rug. The rays of the sun burst through the windows of the kitchen, warming rectangles on the tile of the floor. Dad is sitting at the table with the newspaper, waving his way from page to page, making the occasional grunt. The tangy smell of frying eggs and toast greets you. It’s Saturday, so no class threatens to touch your happiness. Mom looks over with a smile, sins of yesterday forgotten for the joy of today. Hoping onto the seat, you stare down at breakfast steaming its salutation with waving wisps of steam. You pick up the fork.

Then your eyes snap open, and it’s dark. Your hand plants on the frigid concrete of the alleyway ground, sweat dripping down the digits. It is always icy and dark in your new home. You pull the newspaper sheets way from your body. The cold of the air temporarily banishes the itch that runs along your skin with chronic consistency. You grip the biting brick of the building to pull yourself up. Looking at the exit of the alleyway, the sounds of cars and crowd return. And so does the voices. Judging, hating, frothing, the sound of their condemnation drags your heart down into the tar of the shadows. You remember. Father died a long time ago, smoking claiming another victim. Mother was taken not long after you entered college. At least you got the chance to say goodbye. It was a year after when the voices tore away the sanity of the world. You tried to continue, to make a life built on the American dream. But as reality and fantasy blurred, your scholarship, then your hopes, slipped away. One by one, everything you owned was taken away as debts mounted, till the only place left to sleep was on the street. In the voices of the crowd before you, you hear the mocking murmur. You beg for money and food, among the junkies and downtrodden, looking down so your eyes won’t betray your shame.


I once believed that the American dream could touch everyone. When I looked upon those who begged on the sidewalk, I did so with disdain. Hard work could build a life for anyone, and those who had less simply deserved less. They were lazy, perhaps less intelligent. But it was their fault they did not live like royalty. I looked at the rare examples of those who rose above their simple beginnings as proof.

I would have continued to do so, until I actually started to work for money myself. I have been unusually blessed, and did not have to worry about money at the time. But a lady I worked with did not have such luck. She had three kids, and two jobs. Working in the bakery of a supermarket simply could not supply for those she loved. I found out that every month, they had to worry about whether this month would be one of starvation. In worse case, she had to fear that they might lose the roof over their heads. I knew of no one that worked harder. Watching her, I realized how bigoted I was. Yet still, my belief in the idea of people making their own way held against reality.

It was not until I started volunteering that I realized that people, even those that were poor and destitute, were people as equal as any other. I was watching those who entered the food bank, when I saw a grungy Latino man enter. In knew that his clothes were, most likely, second hand. I felt the twinge of disdain building in my throat. I wondered, with a little shame even then, whether he was illegal. All this happened within the space of less than a second, right before his daughter entered. She was the picture of a cute kid. Even more surprising, she had earrings and her dress looked new. Then I realized what should have been instantly obvious. He had been spending all of his money on her, most likely so she would be spared ridicule at school. That twinge in my throat turned into disgust for myself.

Since then, I have met a number of people who have little money. I have even met a few who were homeless. All were just people. Their lives were less fortunate, but often it had nothing to do with laziness. A simple cruel twist of fate was all that was needed to steal their belongings away. Many homeless have mental problems, which builds a barrier against them entering the work force. People treat them like a disease, much like racists treated non-white people decades before.

The disease, however, is not the poor people. It is in our view of them. The bigoted thoughts I had before are echoed in the comments of the people around me. I wonder when the idea, that people could build empires from dust, turned into disgust for those who couldn’t.

Yes, here is when the fools will start spouting about the American Dream. What the defenders of greed forget, however, is that such a dream is not made alone. It is built by people coming together, pulling up those who fall.

Change starts with the views of the public. So, perhaps it is time to change the discussion. Instead of focusing on what the poor and the destitute are not contributing, let’s focus on changing the equation so that they are given the chance build themselves. Somehow the idea of America became about taking for ourselves. It is time to start finding out how giving gives back, truly turning rags and tears to riches.