Yesterday I went to Aikido practice and walked around Meijo Park before it started as per usual. I finally noticed how many homeless people live in that park. They all have blue tarp that they use to make tent like structures. I must have seen a half dozen just within a quarter of a mile radius. They have their laundry hanging out on tree branches. Men, women, old, young. They make friends with all the cats that wander around the park. I noticed them before but it didn't really sink in. Then yesterday it really hit me. Homeless. This triggered a chain reaction of thought that led me back to last summer. To a previous study abroad. To Rennes, France. To an echoing, haunting phrase I'd since been able to somewhat repress. "Une petite pièce, mademoiselle, peut-être?"
In Rennes, France, last summer, homeless people lined the streets in the center of town in which the Franco-American Institute stands where I attended my classes. They would beg as you walked by. Many had dogs. It was said that if they had dogs then the police wouldn't pick them up b/c of the extra hassle of taking the dog to a pound (they were not allowed to leave the dogs behind b/c of a strict stray policy). I'll never forget one homeless person. He looked young, maybe my own age. And when he saw me passing he called, "Une petite pièce, mademoiselle peut-être?" It means, "A small coin, miss, maybe?" His voice dripped with anguish and desperation and a tiny bit of hope because before he called out, he had seen me look at him. But I just kept walking, quickly past.
Before coming to Rennes I'd never seen so many, nor been accosted by a homeless person before. I was afraid of them and I don't know why. I didn't know what to do when they would call out. It was the worst thing about France, the only bad thing. Ever since that day when that young man called to me I have regretted my actions. Other homeless people held out cups, or performed and asked for money. But he is the one that I remember the most. "Une petite pièce, mademoiselle, peut-être?"
You're not supposed to look at them.
If you look it gives them hope that you will give them something. I couldn't help myself and I looked because I was curious. I looked without giving.
I was racked with guilt for weeks. Even as I walked away I thought of going back but didn't. I had spare change that I really didn't need. I had an apple in my bag that I didn't want and was planning on giving away to someone anyway (one of my classmates perhaps). These thoughts buzzed in my head like a giant bee as I walked away. But I was afraid, and I kept walking.
"Une petite pièce, mademoiselle, peut-être?"
I cannot get his voice out of my head. I cannot stop blaming myself for my cowardice. Some would call him an actor. Some would say not to feel guilty and to have nothing to do with them. But I can't help it. My stomach clenched at the misery in his voice. I guess I am easily affected by that kind of thing. I had so much compared to him and I couldn't give him a thing, except for false hope. Did he feel ashamed when I looked at him? Did he think I thought him some sort of freak? I will probably never know. Even if I went back to that same exact street side (I remember it precisely) everyday and waited, I probably wouldn't see him again. I want to find him and apologize, treat him to a meal or something. Maybe just talk to him like a human being.
"Une petite pièce, mademoiselle, peut-être?"
People have always called me naive. Some would even say that doing such things would be very dangerous. I don't care though. He was a person and everyday people like him are treated like vapor or vermin. It isn't right. I always thought it was wrong and then I did the same thing. I even WANTED to help, but I didn't. Why is it that helping is so hard? Why is it so easy to be afraid? It was a crowded street in broad daylight. Stopping and giving him an apple; stopping and chatting with him; it wouldn't have been risky at all. Why would interacting with him have been more dangerous than with anyone else on that street? We demonize those we are afraid of.
"Une petite pièce, mademoiselle, peut-être?"
People will call me naive, foolish. But I cannot get him out of my head or my heart. The homeless people of the world; the ones I passed EVERY SINGLE DAY in Rennes; the ones living in Meijo Park in Nagoya; all of the other ones in every place on Earth; what is being done to help them? If you go by what I did, absolutely nothing. How easily we forsake our own kind.
"Une petite pièce, mademoiselle, peut-être?"
I can still hear him...
It is a silly, impossible wish, but I want to go back to that street side in Rennes, France. I want to wait there around noon (the time I walked past him) everyday for a week, a month, a year, until I see him again and then apologize. And then I would give him an apple or a coin and a smile; the things I denied him and many others like him so many times in those few short weeks I was in France. I want to do this. Maybe it's crazy, but I have always been crazy.
Seeing those blue tarp tents in Meijo Park, seeing the laundry hung on tree branches, seeing homeless people petting the stray cats, reminded me of that experience in Rennes. I pushed it away for the moment. I went to Aikido practice, I returned to my host mom's house, I did homework, and I got up this morning and went through the day. But when I sat down to write this entry it exploded back up to the surface again like a beach ball that has been held underwater and then is suddenly released. And with it coming to the surface again I was finally able to comes to terms with my actio-- nay not actions, action means doing something; I was finally able to comes to terms with my decision to do nothing. How does one move on from experiences like these?
"Une petite pièce, mademoiselle, peut-être?"
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Today was fine. Clear and windy.
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