PANHANDLERS IN JAIL FOR THE 30-DAY PLAN
On occasional visits, long before I moved here, I remember downtown as a blown-out moonscape. Now, as a resident, I delight in its renaissance and walk its length and shop its stores almost weekly.
Just like you, I get panhandled. Even for this bleeding-heart liberal it’s annoying, disruptive, sometimes threatening. But I have news for you: It’s only going to get worse. If you want your downtown to look upscale and prosperous, the number of panhandlers will keep pace.
Linda, who works professionally with the homeless, and I know the wariness that should accompany the approach of a panhandler. He may be a druggie, an alcoholic, a scam artist, simply too lazy to work or interested in using your buck for some other nefarious activity. Sometimes to hedge our contribution, we will accompany the panhandler to Subway and talk with him while he finishes his sandwich. Other times we too avert our eyes, sometimes with a twinge of guilt, sometimes with an edge of disdain.
But even the most hardhearted among us realize that many, if not most, panhandlers we encounter are deeply troubled people. They may be so impaired as to be incapable of finding the simplest kinds of self-support, unable to find or keep jobs, foraging for food, no network of family to accept even minimal responsibility, perhaps the scars of abuse or incest. The chronically mentally ill among them are people will likely survive only with supervised housing and intensive, professional case management, and never get better at all.
And let us also acknowledge that some panhandlers know where the resources are but simply refuse to avail themselves of them, consciously opting for a life on the street. Is this, too, a kind of mental impairment? There is no simple answer.
At first blush, the “just arrest ‘em” crackdown now imposed on panhandlers in downtown Greenville seems shortsighted, if not ridiculous. But, on second thought, I say yes-and-no. Assuming that your typical panhandlers cannot pony up a $541 fine, the question is “What happens to them during their 30 days in jail”?
The cynic’s assumption is that they will simply go back to panhandling, either here or up the road in Spartanburg. Despite county jail being a place of punishment, not a social service agency, we might still anticipate that it could make some minimal intervention during the panhandlers’ 30-day stay. The ultimate objective: What, if anything, can be done to point this person to the resources that will keep him from returning to the streets?
The jail could, or perhaps it already does, have a rudimentary link-up with various social service organizations to assess deficiencies and move panhandlers into to therapeutic programs: mental health, treatment for substance abuse, job-skills training, homeless and spousal abuse programs. It could attempt to locate families of men and women who make their lives begging on the street. It could identify those who are chronically mentally ill who will never make it alone, who will probably forever require a supervised living situation.
And yes, it could also identify the spongers and those who consciously refuse to avail themselves of extant resources and give them no more than a swift kick in the pants, which may be all they require.
To what extent does our county jail offer such interventions for its 30-day denizens? One would have to assume not much. Please God, may we soon be proved wrong.
The liberals among us may see these 30 days as a window to the possibility of public institutions restoring to wholeness victimized, spat-upon, social outcasts. Other people who maintain with equal credibility that government need stay out of social welfare should still see those 30 days as a strategy for keeping undesirables off our pristine streets and one day with the right help even watch them become responsible contributors to the commonweal.
January 30, 2006
THE MESSIAH'S FIRST IMPRESSION
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
January 13, 2006
SECOND AVENUE DELI DEAD, HEARTBURN LINGERS (1/13/06)
My keyboard gently weeps as do I, over the demise of a timeless friend, New York’s Second Avenue Deli.
Loyal patrons were never the issue. Customers squeezed into a miniscule reception area waiting unimaginable hours, eased only by an hors de oeuvres of their nonpareil chopped liver schmeered on a chip of rye bread. No compromise of quality, gusto or huge portions caused the Deli’s demise.
Faulty management and greed were the Second’s fatal bullet. Abe Lebewohl, the murdered founder and patron saint of the Deli could spare them only so much disaster from beyond the grave. Then, in a matter of moments, murder by big business screwed Abe’s icon into the ground to join him. God Himself is now awash in mushroom-barley soup as seraphim chant, “Holy! Holy!”
Most of my colleagues are taking the easy way out of eulogizing the Second by looking at its menu and ascribing an appropriate adjective to each of its offerings. What a desecration. Not to say that Abe’s matzo ball soup, fricassee, pastrami and strudel were not divine.
The Second, though, is rightfully to be mourned for the demise of its ambiance: Now in my fifth decade, others in their eighth, we remember the Deli’s fare as we would the nurturing warmth of momma’s comfort food. When kashrut went out of style, the Deli remained kosher.
A tiny waitress, hair lacquered into a beehive, served your order in rhyme. The servers poured the matzo ball soup into your bowl with great fanfare, but otherwise they were crabby in that unique New York style of crabbiness. I once saw one of them bark at a neophyte patron, “If you don’t know what you want, why the hell are you here?” And let me at some other time regale you in the story of how the Deli once so seduced me with its delights that they had to rush me to the hospital with an attack of acute pancreatitis, from which I almost died.
O precious Abe, why are you not here when we need you most?
O crowning jewel of America’s Jerusalem, wherever again shall we find you?
My keyboard gently weeps as do I, over the demise of a timeless friend, New York’s Second Avenue Deli.
Loyal patrons were never the issue. Customers squeezed into a miniscule reception area waiting unimaginable hours, eased only by an hors de oeuvres of their nonpareil chopped liver schmeered on a chip of rye bread. No compromise of quality, gusto or huge portions caused the Deli’s demise.
Faulty management and greed were the Second’s fatal bullet. Abe Lebewohl, the murdered founder and patron saint of the Deli could spare them only so much disaster from beyond the grave. Then, in a matter of moments, murder by big business screwed Abe’s icon into the ground to join him. God Himself is now awash in mushroom-barley soup as seraphim chant, “Holy! Holy!”
Most of my colleagues are taking the easy way out of eulogizing the Second by looking at its menu and ascribing an appropriate adjective to each of its offerings. What a desecration. Not to say that Abe’s matzo ball soup, fricassee, pastrami and strudel were not divine.
The Second, though, is rightfully to be mourned for the demise of its ambiance: Now in my fifth decade, others in their eighth, we remember the Deli’s fare as we would the nurturing warmth of momma’s comfort food. When kashrut went out of style, the Deli remained kosher.
A tiny waitress, hair lacquered into a beehive, served your order in rhyme. The servers poured the matzo ball soup into your bowl with great fanfare, but otherwise they were crabby in that unique New York style of crabbiness. I once saw one of them bark at a neophyte patron, “If you don’t know what you want, why the hell are you here?” And let me at some other time regale you in the story of how the Deli once so seduced me with its delights that they had to rush me to the hospital with an attack of acute pancreatitis, from which I almost died.
O precious Abe, why are you not here when we need you most?
O crowning jewel of America’s Jerusalem, wherever again shall we find you?
January 10, 2006
YIDDISH CHOP SUEY
Adapting to the new culture was not particularly difficult for the first American generation of my family. Aunts, uncles and cousins facilely became physicians, professors and attorneys. My father was the director of a crime laboratory and an army colonel.
It was not so simple for their immigrant parents. They took lessons in English, but it all came out sounding like Yiddish. They Americanized cherished Old World melodies, struggled to dance to them and called it “Yiddish Swing,” like trying to paint a moustache on the Mona Lisa.
We begged our bubbehs to make us their soothing foods – chicken soup, matzo balls, brisket, kugel, gefilte fish. What could be more comforting than a Shabbos dinner commencing with chopped liver and concluding with fruit compote?
But the immigrant generation still hungered for the culinary mainstream. My grandmother led the way:
Having never been inside a Chinese restaurant, she nonetheless insisted on serving what she imagined was “chop suey.” This delicacy was comprised of canned mushrooms and chunks of brisket simmered in soy sauce and chicken soup. It was then served over toasted rye rolls, as though we were celebrating Chiang Kai Chek’s bris.
In an attempt at multi-ethnicity, she also tried her hand at Italian cookery. Once a week she presented us with her concept of spaghetti – boiled noodles melded with cream of tomato soup and bland cheddar cheese, then baked in a casserole. It was scooped out as though it were a kugel and served as a side dish to that American-Jewish mainstay, tuna salad.
At the tender age of eight, my parents took me to a “real” Italian restaurant. I spied spaghetti on the menu but refused to eat it because of its aberrant look – not pinkish-orange and served in a chunk.
May I predict that one day I will succeed in renaming my bubbeh’s spaghetti tagliatelle con minestra di crema del pomodoro ed il formaggio and doll it up with a sprig of oregano? Gourmands will lick their plates and adulate me as though I were a disciple of Brillat-Savarin. Now, essen Sie gut mit un buon Appetito!
Adapting to the new culture was not particularly difficult for the first American generation of my family. Aunts, uncles and cousins facilely became physicians, professors and attorneys. My father was the director of a crime laboratory and an army colonel.
It was not so simple for their immigrant parents. They took lessons in English, but it all came out sounding like Yiddish. They Americanized cherished Old World melodies, struggled to dance to them and called it “Yiddish Swing,” like trying to paint a moustache on the Mona Lisa.
We begged our bubbehs to make us their soothing foods – chicken soup, matzo balls, brisket, kugel, gefilte fish. What could be more comforting than a Shabbos dinner commencing with chopped liver and concluding with fruit compote?
But the immigrant generation still hungered for the culinary mainstream. My grandmother led the way:
Having never been inside a Chinese restaurant, she nonetheless insisted on serving what she imagined was “chop suey.” This delicacy was comprised of canned mushrooms and chunks of brisket simmered in soy sauce and chicken soup. It was then served over toasted rye rolls, as though we were celebrating Chiang Kai Chek’s bris.
In an attempt at multi-ethnicity, she also tried her hand at Italian cookery. Once a week she presented us with her concept of spaghetti – boiled noodles melded with cream of tomato soup and bland cheddar cheese, then baked in a casserole. It was scooped out as though it were a kugel and served as a side dish to that American-Jewish mainstay, tuna salad.
At the tender age of eight, my parents took me to a “real” Italian restaurant. I spied spaghetti on the menu but refused to eat it because of its aberrant look – not pinkish-orange and served in a chunk.
May I predict that one day I will succeed in renaming my bubbeh’s spaghetti tagliatelle con minestra di crema del pomodoro ed il formaggio and doll it up with a sprig of oregano? Gourmands will lick their plates and adulate me as though I were a disciple of Brillat-Savarin. Now, essen Sie gut mit un buon Appetito!
January 06, 2006
WHAT WILL THE MESSIAH LOOK LIKE?
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
A colleague recently offered a provocative column exploring the nature of miracles, inexplicably the Grinch who Stole Chanukah. In passing, he debunked a list of purported wonderments, among them the redemptive powers of a “dead rabbi buried in Brooklyn,” his reference to Lubavitcher Rebbe, held by his chasidic adherents to have messianic powers (and actually buried in Queens).
Agree or disagree, he raised a significant, albeit tangential, question for us Jews, if not our Christian brethren: How will we know that the Messiah is really the Messiah? This should be vexing to Orthodox Jews – opinions of Maimonides, Nachmanides and the rest. But, so long as Conservative Jews still pray that God bring “a Redeemer,” they too need face the arcane question. It is, after all, a peek into the sincerity of ones belief in the world’s ultimate reconciliation, the purported bread-and-butter of religious belief.
But, for a society in which “the media is the message,” I am stuck on an even more esoteric question, one that tests the tug-of-war between the ephemeral and the enduring: What will the Messiah look like? Before we hear a syllable of a messianic lesson, will first impression even allow his/her foot in the door?
Will Conservative Jews instantly shut down the messianic possibilities of a man fur hat, beard and frockcoat, because of his presumed Orthodox intransigence? Will Orthodox Jews reject on sight someone in a three-piece suit before even considering his qualities of vision, charismatic leadership, piety and ethical merit?
Then there is the “nut factor” that all Jews praying for the Messiah must face: A man in need of a haircut appears around the corner dressed in flowing raiment, riding a donkey sidesaddle, led by a guy tooting a ram’s horn, just like in the Maxwell House Haggadah. Then he starts expounding from the Torah.
So, you tell me what your messiah will look like?
The easy way out is to say that the messiah will establish his/her credentials slowly over years of shared wisdom, decency and moral example. Maybe in antiquity. But, this is not antiquity. This is the world of establishing an impression in 17 seconds – haircut, suit, tie, posture.
Will this be a messiah for the Jews, or for all humanity? Yes, we teach, Jews will come first, which will provide its own problems of couture. He will guide us to wisdom, moral perfection and renewed nationhood. But Jewish tradition does teach that universal reconciliation will spring forth from our own redemption.
This we do know: As we sally forth to bring the messiah’s message to the nations, clothes and color won’t matter. In the first 17 seconds, glimmers of deliverance must be evoked by the aura conveyed through posture and presence – humility, dignity, resolve, warmth. Immediately thereafter, the messiah must pronounce and confirm the universality of his/her message.
This is precisely why the messianic era will be a time of miracles and wonders. Day by day, we work and pray for it, but its culmination will still demand perfect faith in the seemingly impossible, least among them whether the messiah wears a Borsalino, turban or Chasidic fur.
Perhaps this is precisely why we do not yet live in the era of The Messiah. We are still too cynical, polarized, closed-minded, indifferent, judgmental of externalities, or practitioners of the “17-second rule.”
As a first step, however, we should be sufficiently open to acknowledge that there are among us people larger than life who have become our personal savior or have profound messianic potential, whether or not they are acceptable or accepted as the one universal Messiah.
I am blessed to know what my personal messiah looks like. He happens, by the way, to be buried in Queens. Twice, his counsel literally saved my life and guided me to do better things with it. For me, his influence endures beyond the grave.
I am on no mission to have others believe as I do. But, I’d hate for the world to miss years of joyous redemption by whoever reconciles the world to harmony and peace, just because the best candidate was wearing Sears, not Versace.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)