The Poor You Have Always With You

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The plight of the poor in distant lands always ignites the flame of public concern. Yet there are people walking our streets who are too poor and too forlorn to even warrant attention. Like the unclean leper in years past these people have lost all hope of ever sharing the American dream of a home, or even salvation. When death mercifully falls their lot not even a stone shall be turned in their personal behalf; not one tear shall be shed.

By what standard are they rejected. By what office are they scorned. If mere failure has cast them out of our human race then where was that line drawn?

These men, these women who struggle on to survive should not be condemned for that struggle. They are still our kin. Of one blood and one father have we all sprung. Perhaps some of them do deserve to reap all of what they have sown. Perhaps most of their current actions should not fill us with love or respect.

But would our own reactions be any less shallow or distressed in such a covertly conferred status of lost souls? How much different would our spirits be if, when our desperate hour of need arose, every hand of kindness were turned against us, every avenue of relief were denied -- and we were the ones so persistently despised and scorned. How would we bear up when any claim for compassion through the common origin in the brotherhood of man was met with angry denials?

Can we be so sure they deserve their lot? Can we even be sure that in their hearts does not ring great human inspirations or even the stirrings of a poet's divine soul? Might not some greatness lie twisted and unrevealed in that forsaken path where they trod? When even trained doctors admit they cannot fathom the thoughts of an average human mind, can we be so sure these few would still be derelicts if not assaulted with indignities on every side?

They are the final victim in the food chain of American Predators. Those who can't peck on nobody else peck on them. They are the ones most likely to get killed for a pair of socks.

Is it any wonder so many in their plight are considered mentally ill? Doing without in the midst of plenty, where every gratification is instant for the teeming throng, and they have none; living where there are none so forgotten or despised as those who cannot afford to get on welfare; this is hardly the road to sainthood for the common run of man.

Twice-a-year remembrance offerings are scarcely enough to cleanse our consciences. True compassion is never a fluctuating outburst but must be a continuous struggle to uplift and to protect.

The answer for those who may never again be able to cope with this life may be care in an institution. Should we we give them any less? Perhaps grouply governed shelter could be provided in some crumbling, tax-burdened building to serve others as a base from which to rebuild shattered lives. Perhaps the opportunity to restore a mind and body with rest and simple labor in the open air could be given to those who would prefer the countryside.

The answer society gives is not mine to suggest. But one answer must be eternally stricken from the slate. The option of ignoring them or hating them for what they cannot achieve must be irrevocably withdrawn from our lists of response. For when we deny them the respect due them as human beings then we have denied and slandered our own heritage.

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