That time of year between Thanksgiving and Christmas is arguably when people are at their kindest. As people remember who they are grateful for, they show their love through presents and holiday fun. But what about those who don’t have that warmth for the season — both literally, and emotionally?
As skyscrapers get taller, phones get weirder, and politics gets heftier, one thing in New York City has yet to change — Homelessness.
The Idea
People can end up living on the streets for many reasons, from a lost job to mental illness. No matter who they were before, they fall under one label.
Homeless.
When I go up to meet someone, I don’t say, “I’m Bea, a sheltered person.” Yet when I see a person sleeping on the street, or asking for money, all that I identify them as is “an unsheltered person.”
How could I change this?
With the holiday season approaching, I decided to make ten care packages and deliver them to homeless people throughout the city. I would try to talk to them and learn more about who they are.
Perhaps I could meet them and break the barriers we all often put up when living in New York City. In doing so, I hoped to see them for who they truly are, not defined by their experiences. Real people. Being homeless is simply a part of them.
What do homeless people need the most? When I first indulged myself on Amazon, the package came out to $1,000. After researching and rationalizing, I decided to make each package consist of the following items: a hat, a pair of gloves, hygiene products, a snack, and some candies. It was a difficult decision, because I was coming to terms with the reality that I tried to push down — I could not change their lives. But I could try my best to help.
The Walk
The day after Thanksgiving, I packed my presents into three massive bags and headed out my front door.
To tell the truth, I was nervous. Little pellets of sweat beaded my forehead as I realized what I had gotten myself into. What if the person was offended? What if they were dangerous?
When I finally broke from the storm in my head, I was on Fifth Avenue and 90th Street in Manhattan, an entrance to Central Park. It was that bitter-cold weather in which you can barely wiggle your fingers, and here, in the “upper crust” of Manhattan, beneath a clump of tattered blankets, slept a man.
To simply go up to someone and say “Hello, I have a present for you,” is difficult, but I had a bag and a plan and there was nothing I could do but do it.
I walked up to this man, saying “excuse me? Hello?” No response.
“I have a present for you,” I said, a bit louder. Slowly, the blankets moved, and two hands reached out. I could not see his face, but his hands looked worn and frigid. I put the box in his hands.
I had just awoken from one of those nights where you toss and turn but never feel quite right. I was still walking off that feeling, and yet what about this man? He always had to have one eye open, making sure he was safe. And amidst having to be only half-asleep, he must have been freezing.
“Thank you,” said the man. His hands recoiled back, and he took the gift with him. I got a surge of confidence to keep going until my gifts ran out.
Throughout that first day, I distributed five of my gifts. I walked down Fifth Avenue, down 86th, and into adjacent subway stations. On the second day, I headed down the bustling 34th Street, turned on Eighth Avenue, and walked to Union Square.
In the words of a woman near Penn Station, “I didn’t even know it was Christmas…I’m just trying to get out of the cold right now.”
When I was on Sixth Avenue, I met a woman who had been robbed the night before. Her eye was swollen shut after falling down her stairs and hitting her eye against her suitcase in a frenzy to find safety. She had woken up from a night sleeping by a train station, on a thin mat. She had lost nearly all of her belongings. Despite this, she said, “I’m fine now, don’t worry,” and was very grateful for the present. Her resilience was inspiring, but her struggle was real.
As I neared the end of my walk, I gave a present to a man whose sign read “Veteran” and was reading on the corner of 14th and Fifth. I kneeled down next to him, and handed him the gift. “Thanks,” he said.
“I hate the holidays” he explained agitatedly that he has witnessed so many other people getting things, but, “I never get lucky.” As I tried to ask more questions, he asked me, “Can I just read?”
And so from the other side of the street, I watched him open the gift. He did not viciously tear off the paper, but instead carefully unwrapped the seams of tape. I saw him holding the hat, and watched as he looked around. Then he took out a lotion, and studied it. He held everything in his hands, looking a bit confused. A tear slid down my cheek, as I witnessed a change in his likely difficult day, one that I hoped made him realize he, too, deserved to be lucky.
I turned downtown on 14th, and there sat a man who introduced himself as Gerry, shoving his hands in his pockets as if to resist the cold. Beside him was a sign that read in big red letters, “Homeless.” There was no denying this guy had some artistic talent. He took the gift with gratitude, and I also bought him hand warmers that he requested. As he told me that at 25, he arrived in the United States from British Guinea. In New York City, he raised his son, who is now at a college for biology and athletics in North Carolina. He told me, “That’s why I’m out here, I had to sacrifice.” As I had suspected, he had his own art business, but it shut down after the pandemic. Despite the wicked cold air and his shelter situation, Gerry seemed content. He was grateful for his belongings, which were covered by some big black blankets. He showed me his radio, where he loved to learn what was happening in the world.
With one more gift, I started heading back home. But not before I met John, who sat with a “hungry” sign by Union Square. Growing up, people had told him that New York City was a place full of cold, unfriendly people. New York City felt so big and outlandish in his mind that he long thought that “the city was the state.” Despite this, “youth” brought him and some friends from Austin, Texas all the way to New York City. Shortly after his arrival, he had an accident. Seconds later, fifteen people surrounded him, and he was quickly able to get help. He noted that as soon as they saw he would be okay, and “they went on with their lives.”
As time goes by, John told me that he loses hope in himself. He feels regret for not having given back more in his lifetime. He tries to read, but, as he said, “I used to be literate, now I look at words, and I am like ‘what does this mean?’”
I noticed that on the other side of his sign, he had scribbled a note.
It’s never too late… was all that was decipherable.
As I left, he told me, “God loves you, like the pith of a tree,” and “I hope you have a wonderful life.”
I looked into his grey-blue eyes, and said with certainty “You too.”
I smiled and shook his hand, and he smiled back.
The Point
“Can anyone spare me some water? An apple? A dollar? Anything?”
As New Yorkers, we have all heard some sort of variation of this from a homeless person, perhaps on public transportation or on the streets. I was always too distracted to notice much besides the clanging of a few coins in their cup. I unconsciously assumed that their lives were defined by being unsheltered, but after learning more about a few homeless people, I realized that they were just as dimensional as any other person.
On my walk, I passed many people who were begging for money and living on the streets, because I wanted to reach people all throughout Manhattan. When I walked by them, I looked them in the eyes, and a surge of guilt washed over me as I kept walking. I only had ten gifts.
Around 8,097,282 people live in New York City.
There are about 350,000 unsheltered people in New York City. So if each person in the city can dedicate a dollar, snack, donation, or care package to the next homeless person, perhaps New York City can truly provide a joyful holiday season for everyone.
As skyscrapers get taller, phones get weirder, and politics gets heftier, one thing in New York City has yet to change. Homelessness.