How Can We Measure the Worth of a Stranger?

This past weekend a group of us ran a pet food and coin drive in front of our local Vons, in support of Helen Woodward Animal Center.  

 

For those of you that don't know, Vons is a chain of grocery stores in the US.  Maybe in other parts of the world too-I dunno, really.

Anyhow, It was a pretty good experience-humbling to be snubbed by good people with problems and lives of their own, and gratifying to be heeded by good people that cared.  Some of them shared their stories along with their nickels and dimes and dollar bills, crisp or faded and wrinkled.  Some of them had dogs with them, and some of them bright cheeked children.  

But it isn't for them that I write, although they deserve all the thanks in the world.

Halfway through the first day, an older Asian man parked his bicycle across the way from us and entered the store.  He came and went for a while, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette for a while, and then striding off into the store, or away toward Bertrand's Music store.  His face was deeply tanned and leathery, he wore a soldier's camo and sturdy boots.  Around his right arm was proudly pinned a yellow sash that read "Philippines".  He studied us by turns, but didn't say anything.  At first.

Then he came toward us, smiling reproachfully, and said: "How come you guys don't ask me?"

And shame flooded me.  Why hadn't we asked him? We had asked almost everyone else that passed by.  There was no smile kinder than his, no bearing stronger, prouder.  Why hadn't we thought to ask him?

He pulled out a beaten black leather wallet and pulled out two one dollar bills.  His weather-beaten, square-tipped fingers carefully smoothed them out and tucked them into our donation box.  

Why hadn't we asked him?

He accepted a piece of chocolate, beaming, and left, legs pumping easily on that beaten old bike. 

A poor veteran, spat up by Big Brother, and snubbed by the likes of us.  Who are we?  Sixteen and seventeen year-olds sitting in front of a whistle-stop of a faceless corporation and asking for donations.  Who are we to judge his worth? Because in essence, we did just that-we decided for him, without his consent, that he couldn't donate.  That our lot wasn't his lot, that our cause couldn't also be his cause.  

I can't remember the last time I was so ashamed.  

But our thanks were genuine.  His smile lost its edge and his eyes disappeared in a sea of creases and wrinkles.  After he left, we sat in silence for a while.  

After he left, we had people come up, twenty dollar bills held at attention, demanding reciepts for tax returns.  They left in a huff when they heard that we hadn't any to give. 

My own grandfather fought in World War Two.  It could have so easily been him.  Lord, I hate society for sweeping the valient into shadows.  They deserve so much better.