I am Seinfeld

Whenever I encounter something funny, and I want to share it, and it involves people who have no voice to respond, who may have the ability but lack the means to match wits with me online, I feel very conflicted. I love comedy, I love to write, I love blogs, and I love making other people laugh; the stuff that happens to me in real life is so much better than what happens to me in real life that I just go with it without acknowledging the fact that I am being a bully. As we all know, bullies are the biggest wimps. John, the man I write about here, can't post a blog of his own to tell me what he thinks about my piece and where to go and how -- nor would he want to, probably, or care about any of it. But in my experience, somebody like John would eviscerate me in a face-to-face battle of words. In his world, I'm the wimp. In this world, he is, whether we like it or not.

As you'll see, John and I shared a good laugh, and frankly he and his friends had a good laugh at my expense. The difference is there were 4 of them and potentially hundreds of you, most of whom will get that my intent is to write about a homeless person as a person, not as caricature or a representative of "a people" or some Hollywood stock character. (I usually have about 8 readers, but still.)

It disturbs me that somebody will read this, or something else I write, who have never met a homeless person in their life. Some may have met them as volunteers, which is great, or prosyletized to them on street corners, which I would love to hear their take on, but what does it mean to know someone? Remember the guys who used youtube to post those horrible attacks on homeless people? How about all the people who laughed at them? Every time I make a “homeless joke” I am putting myself slightly closer to them on the spectrum of humanity, and I have to weigh that against the kick I get out of the joke.

In college one of my friends wanted to spend a night in a homeless shelter and write about it for the school paper. One of our grizzled old professors heard us talking about it in class and said something I'll never forget.

"What do you think it's going to be like?" he said. "It's not going to be some idyllic experience. Most homeless people are dirty, smelly, angry." He shook his head and told my classmate to spend a few nights a week volunteering in a soup kitchen and then write something about that experience.

The kid kept talking about his big “night-in-a-shelter” story, but he never did it. At least, not while we were in college.

Some of my students are homeless, but the reality is, I get paid to spend time with them. Their condition, however unfortunate it may be, is in some sense the reason for my job, the source of my livelihood. Getting to know them is my job. But that doesn’t mean I can “speak for” the homeless or take lightly my portrayal of them. Sure, I’m a better person than those Bum Fight guys, but so is everyone who never killed a kitten.

In my experience, in teacher-student relationships, homelessness is treated as a shameful secret. A surprising number of my teenage students -- whether they were "put out" or they ran away -- do not have homes to go to. They sleep on relatives' couches or with boyfriends and girlfriends, or they “get locked up.” I have known 4 single mothers -- 3 Latina, 1 black – who said they couldn’t do their homework because it was too noisy in the shelter. All the statistics will tell you, these women and children are the real “face” of homelessness. Most homeless people aren't men, they don’t sleep in doorways, and they don’t panhandle.

The ones we see on the street are a minority. Thank God.

I have worked with plenty of single men who lived in shelters and scraped together food from various programs. One of them walked from Anacostia to downtown DC for tutoring until I found out and gave the man some tokens. People like him (we’ll call him “C”) are what keep me going, through the dozens students who leave no impression, or make a bad one leave a bad one. C and guys like him want to get a job and a room to rent, but they just can’t. For me the most powerful thing to deal with is self-esteem so low the stuff we learned in school doesn’t begin to describe it. I don't tell them that when I feel worthless, when I can’t get out of bed in the morning, I rely on family, friends, drugs and therapists to keep my life together. I can suggest some resources, but I can’t insult him by comparing my situation with his.

C blames himself for his joblessness, and he really does thank God for every scrap of joy He tosses from the table. C doesn’t think he deserves any better, which is common in abuse victims.

C’s story makes me sad because, in a certain sense, I gave up on him. After doing well for an entire semester of college (!), he wasted my time and resources, to the point that I finally blew up at him. It was the first time I really “broke up” with one of my mentees, and because it was the first time, I handled it pretty badly. I don’t flatter myself into thinking I had a big impact on C’s state of mind, but I’m sure he views me as another person who gave up on him along the way.

I am obviously sympathetic to C, because of the way I was raised, the church I went to, my mother’s example, my personal experience with depression, but what really made me care about him were all those weeks that he walked across the river, 7 miles, to downtown, to be tutored in math. He didn’t tell me, either. The front desk guy did. One day it rained so hard Chris hung out with him for a couple of hours before heading home.

With everything I know about people, and American values, and Christian values, I simply do not think anybody could know Chris and still walk away saying things like, “Why do I have to pay for some homeless guy to sit on his ass?” I could be wrong.

I hope not.

****

Heckle of the Week:

Homeless Guy: "You look beautiful! You look like Seinfeld!"

I was walking through Union Station, after work, like always, half-hearing the same tired phrases, like always:

“Lookin’ GOOD.”

“Hey baby.”

“Can I go with you?”

“You look like Seinfeld.”

What?

The tone was as surprising as the words. It was neutral, conversational, even friendly. I burst out laughing and turned to get a look at the guy. He was laughing, too, as if he had surprised himself.

He had white hair, but he wasn’t elderly. His clothes were dingy, his face scruffy. A dirty blanket lay crumpled at his feet. He was with a group of other guys, some of whom I know live at Union Station, lined up by the escalators, where a steady wave of commuters brushed past.

"You look beautiful, you look like Seinfeld!"

Ha, ha, somebody did something unexpected! Heckling is stupid but a heckler said a smart thing! The fact that the heckler was an archetype made the story funnier. And the quote could be used as a punchline or stand alone.

Later, after telling the story to show everyone how clever I am, I felt conflicted about the whole entire thing. What am I really saying? “Hey guys, isn’t it funny that a homeless person said something smart?!” or “Don't black people say funny things?!” And I wasn't even being clever. It was just the old "See! There is more to homeless people than meets the eye!” story. I would think about how pathetic it was to need people to validate my cleverness. Then I would feel bad because once again, I had made it about me.

Then Elaine said, "What are you, the New York Times? So you offended 4 people, including yourself! So what?!"

I am Seinfeld.

All the commuters, including me, were carrying laptop bags, smart phones, Starbucks cups, and anxiety. But John saw Seinfeld in me. Good friends have told me I look like New York City, but John called it in 2 seconds!

Chances are he didn’t mean to say something uncannily astute. Chances are there is not a genius living in Union Station. Chances are John is a perceptive guy who made a joke. I laughed. His friends laughed. He laughed. We were all laughing for different reasons, and those reasons are interesting.

Something else is interesting, too. Does John associate beauty with Seinfeld? Does he think I do? He started out with a compliment, and followed it up with something that really wasn't. Seinfeld, like Woody Allen movies, New York City and, (evidently) me, is first and foremost, neurotic. Again, did John in 2 seconds pick up on the fact that I am even more neurotic than most young professionals -- "yuppies," to the politically incorrect? Because he hit the nail on the head.

Nobody likes to be called neurotic, but think about Manhattan -- intense, anxiety ridden, exciting, creative, cutting edge, expensive. Seinfeld is funny and original as well as neurotic. Besides, John softened the blow by first telling me I'm beautiful, which is also true.

I wonder if John watches much Seinfeld. I don't think it's overstepping to say that the reality depicted on Seinfeld Friends is about as different from his life as it could be. I wonder how many yuppies John actually knows, or that care to know him.

I wonder if John later realized he was falling back on a tired stereotype to get a laugh.