From Salt Lake City to China (Click here for the Author's Commentary)
“Do you have any spare change sir?”
“I’ve seen you here before” I thought. My mind continued, “In fact, I see you every time I come to Temple Square. Why are you still out here on the street? What do you do with the money people give you? And, if I give you any money will it really help you that much in the long run?” It all created a cognitive dissonance within me. But, before I had time to answer any of those questions it was time to cross the street.
I kept walking, remembering I don’t have any cash in my wallet anyway. I wonder if giving her money would have even helped. I mean, don’t people hear about panhandlers earning one hundred and eighty two dollars an hour? (Ortiz) They can earn so much and they still stay on the street. I don’t understand it. I remember going to China with my family to give humanitarian aid. They scenes of poverty I saw there were so different from anything I’ve seen in the United States.
As I entered the parking lot I had flashbacks of my family’s trip to China. We all got in the van to leave the City of Nanning in southeast China and travel to the countryside. I fell asleep in the van only to wake up and see green. There was no more overpopulated city. All I saw was green. There were mountains filled with leafy trees covered in moss, and the rice patties stretched for miles like the cornfields of the midwest.
Then I saw it.
A destitute village in the midst of this city of Oz. Far from the concrete jungles of Shanghai and Beijing there was a small poor village. When we began handing out bags of rice and jugs of oil the children came running. They looked at us with dirty faces but bright smiles. They didn’t know they were poor. This is all they ever knew.
I remembered entering a home of an elderly lady. I wouldn’t say she was ancient per se, but the wrinkles on her face and hands showed a long life of labor. She was widowed and no longer had a way to support herself; she was too old to work. When my mom handed her a bag of rice the shock on her face quickly turned to sobbing. I couldn’t begin to understand what the lady must have been thinking as her sobbing neared hysteria. This was such a different scene from the panhandlers I just passed.
The flashbacks and the lady’s cries faded away like smoke as my mind returned to the parking lot. I unlocked my car to drive home. “There has to be a better way to care for the poor” I thought.
“I’ve seen you here before” I thought. My mind continued, “In fact, I see you every time I come to Temple Square. Why are you still out here on the street? What do you do with the money people give you? And, if I give you any money will it really help you that much in the long run?” It all created a cognitive dissonance within me. But, before I had time to answer any of those questions it was time to cross the street.
I kept walking, remembering I don’t have any cash in my wallet anyway. I wonder if giving her money would have even helped. I mean, don’t people hear about panhandlers earning one hundred and eighty two dollars an hour? (Ortiz) They can earn so much and they still stay on the street. I don’t understand it. I remember going to China with my family to give humanitarian aid. They scenes of poverty I saw there were so different from anything I’ve seen in the United States.
As I entered the parking lot I had flashbacks of my family’s trip to China. We all got in the van to leave the City of Nanning in southeast China and travel to the countryside. I fell asleep in the van only to wake up and see green. There was no more overpopulated city. All I saw was green. There were mountains filled with leafy trees covered in moss, and the rice patties stretched for miles like the cornfields of the midwest.
Then I saw it.
A destitute village in the midst of this city of Oz. Far from the concrete jungles of Shanghai and Beijing there was a small poor village. When we began handing out bags of rice and jugs of oil the children came running. They looked at us with dirty faces but bright smiles. They didn’t know they were poor. This is all they ever knew.
I remembered entering a home of an elderly lady. I wouldn’t say she was ancient per se, but the wrinkles on her face and hands showed a long life of labor. She was widowed and no longer had a way to support herself; she was too old to work. When my mom handed her a bag of rice the shock on her face quickly turned to sobbing. I couldn’t begin to understand what the lady must have been thinking as her sobbing neared hysteria. This was such a different scene from the panhandlers I just passed.
The flashbacks and the lady’s cries faded away like smoke as my mind returned to the parking lot. I unlocked my car to drive home. “There has to be a better way to care for the poor” I thought.