Art imitates life

In the past few months, the boys' fine motor skills have really picked up. 

Dean, especially, is really taken with drawing, writing, coloring, cutting, creating.  He's always making something. Paper airplanes. Wall decor for the playroom. Little pictures to mail to Nana and Granddad. It's really very cute. 

Since we moved into the new house, he's drawn a lot of pictures of houses, usually with a chimney with smoke coming out (because we now have not one but two awesome wood-burning fireplaces! Holla!) 

This week, he drew a picture that was totally cute, of a house with a car parked next to it.

Isn't that little car the cutest?

He made it for Miss Arlene, our after-care provider, but I asked him if I could have it, because 1) It was the first time he ever drew a car on his own and 2) For some reason, it made me get all filled up.

I brought it to work and put it on my desk, where I've been thinking about why Dean's picture moved me so.

And I think it's this:

I once read somewhere that if you own a car, you are in the top 10-percent of wealthiest people in the world. 

Dean drew a picture of a house (likely ours) and a car (also likely ours) which means he associates the two -- a house and a car go together. 

I imagine that an average child in Haiti or Zimbabwe would maybe draw a picture of a happy yellow sun, some grass and a house, but probably NOT a car.

But Dean did. And it reminds me how incredibly privileged we are. 

Sometimes -- even with the new house and the promotions and the private schools -- I know I can feel poor. (Well, maybe that's because of the private schools...lol.) I dream of more, more, more - better vacations, pricier summer camps, the (good ol') days when I used to get my hair done once a week. I think about the things I wish I had, as opposed to being grateful for the things I do.

For example, we went into credit card debt for the first time in our marriage to pay for some of the renovations to the new house. And because of that, we're not going on our beach trip this year. This not infrequently makes me sad. But HULLO -- you renovated a house, Tanika! You're not going to the beach this year because you installed soft-close cabinets and an induction range and office built-ins! Not because you make the equivalent of $2 a day like many, many people in this world. Also, it's the BEACH. Not a necessity. Get over yourself!

(I have to talk to myself this way sometimes. Tough love from me to me.)

The truth is we have a house - a modest, but beautiful, well-stocked, love-filled one. We have a car. We have two, actually. We are blessed beyond measure. We are rich in so many ways, figuratively and, compared to so much of the rest of the world, literally. It's an embarrassment of riches, actually. I mean, really, our cups runneth over.

My son's rudimentary drawing is a wonderful reminder of my blessings. It makes me think of the goodness of God and the arbitrary nature of birth. Why I happened to be born to educated, middle class parents in the wealthiest nation on Earth is beyond me. I didn't do anything to deserve it. But it happened. And I'm thankful. 

My children are growing up safe, comfortable, educated, loved (adored and pampered even). My children are free.

We are so very blessed. 

And I've got the picture to prove it.

(Thanks, Dean, for the reminder!)

Privilege/obligation

"To whom much is given, much is required."

I know we've all heard that, and on some levels I know that the people whom I choose to call friends generally believe that.

But what does it really mean? What does giving back really look like?

I tend to feel comfortable in my "giving back" because I work for a company that only works with nonprofits and foundations who are working toward progressive causes. The work I do might seem insignificant, but in some small way, I tell myself, I'm helping those organizations. Thus, I'm helping the people that they help. On top of that, I'm on the board of a local charter school and on the board of the Baltimore Urban Debate League, both of which are doing their part to help young people in the city learn, grow and thrive. So that's helping, right? And every year we've been married, Lester and I have given to a number of progressive organizations/causes/campaigns.

But is that enough?

In the past two weeks, two different things have happened to me that have lingered on my mind and in my heart far longer than I would have expected.

First, a homeless man outside of Starbucks asked me for money. If I have cash/change, I almost always give something to people on the street who ask. This day was no different, but I needed to get change first, so I told him "On my way out, I will." He nodded. When I came out with my coffee, I handed him $2, smiled and kept walking, hurriedly, to my car. I heard him call out behind me, "Thank you." And then, "My name's Joseph, by the way."

I felt like I'd been hit in the chest. Heat rushed to my face. I turned and looked at him, sitting there, making himself small. He was older than me, but not old, despite his salt and pepper hair. He looked almost dignified, wrapped in a scarf, his legs crossed. I said, "Hello, Joseph," and got in my car.

I felt like crying and I wasn't sure why. The biggest thing I felt was ashamed: I felt comfortable giving him money, when what I should have given him was respect.

This has been on my mind ever since. The image pops up in my head at the strangest times. It plagues me while I sleep. Joseph. Not "a man who needed money." Just a man. A human. Joseph.

Then, this week, I was paying for my parking at a meter downtown, on my way to a board meeting. A young man, maybe 17 or 18, came running up to me with a badly-stitched-together story about how he needed money to catch the bus, but only had a credit card, so could he pay for my parking with his card and I just give him cash. "It'll be half the price for you," he said, salesman-like.

I could see the bruise marks on his arms. And I knew in my heart that credit card was stolen. But I could feel his desperation and the fading remnants of what must have been, at one point, his dignity. I had just read an article about addiction and its overpowering effects. I wanted to be indignant about how I would NOT support his drug habit or his stealing. But I just couldn't. I felt sorry for him.

And in that brief moment that he saw my pity/sadness for him, he pounced. He aggressively swiped the card, pushed the button for the parking ticket, held his hand out for my cash, said his thanks and ran off to the next person parking a few feet down the block.  It happened really, really fast.

The transaction was a blur, but his face is not. I see it clearly in my mind several times a day.  His drawn face, blue eyes, dirty curls flopping around his forehead. He looked like a little boy.

I know now -- after thinking and thinking and thinking about it -- I should have just given him the cash, and not allowed him to use that credit card. I went wrong there. I wish I could take that part back.

But, oddly, I don't feel bad about giving him the money. And I don't know why. I keep re-winding that scene, thinking, "Is there any way that boy wasn't a heroin addict (and a fairly new one at that?)" But no. He was. And he was also someone's son.  A human, with a name. I wish I knew what it was.

Clearly, I have no obligation to give money to drug addicts, or to support criminal activity in any way.

But I have been thinking a lot - for some reason - about that encounter with him and just what my obligation was in that moment. I'm pretty sure I failed, using almost any measure. But I truly don't know what the "right" thing should have been.

In any case, these two moments in time, sharing a few words with two men who have far less than I do, have been seared into my brain and heart. I can't stop thinking of Joseph and parking-meter-boy.

I pray that over time God will show me the right way to give back some of the privilege I've been given. Not just in chance encounters on the street, but in a real, substantial way.

"Teach us to give and not to count the cost."

- Saint Ignatius