Altruism

1.30.02

A few years ago, I made a whole snowballing series of bad decisions, and found myself without enough money or employment.

I was forced to talk to my family about it, which I hated, and they offered to help out as much as they could. My parents were strapped for cash, but they sent home a bag of groceries with me whenever they could, and my sister, in addition to paying me way more than the going rate for baby-sitting, bought me train passes and dinner.

In spite of their help, I was still in desperate need of money, so I did the only legal thing I could see to do. I applied for food stamps.

It was not difficult for me to be approved for public aid, since outside of baby-sitting, I only worked one day a week at a doctor's office.

I did not claim the baby-sitting money, so I think the take-home pay I reported was around $80 per week.

I was a mess. Depressed and freaked out about being broke, I spent most of my food stamps on comfort food like potatoes and instant pancake mix. As I medicated my battered pride with cheap, starchy food, I started to get my life back together a little bit at a time.

Every month that I received food stamps I had to go back to the public aid office to report that I still needed them.

The first and second times I went, I met with a woman who filled every imaginable stereotype of a social service caseworker. She was middle-aged, going gray, with huge hips that spilled over the edges of her metal frame desk chair.

That chair looked very uncomfortable.

The woman had a sour, indifferent look on her face that told me she had heard every sob story there was, and I should just keep it to myself.

I made it through my two interviews with her by reminding myself that in the world of food stamps, her word was law. Then I slunk out of the public aid office, relieved and embarrassed that I had been re-approved.

A couple of weeks after my second visit, I got a telephone call from someone at the public aid office. They wanted to verify my income. Not surprisingly, they were not sure how someone could live on only $80 per week, and still have a roof overhead.

When they started asking about any other income, my heart started to beat quickly. I started to think that maybe I was going to get into trouble for not claiming my baby-sitting money.

I was barely starting to feel like I could get my life back on track, and I could see myself going through whatever torment they reserve for those who defraud public assistance. The voice on the other end of the line told me I'd better come back in to the office.

When I got there, I took my seat in the waiting area for the customary hour-and-a-half wait.

When they called my name, I was not taken to the tchatchke-covered desk of my usual caseworker, but was shown instead to the desk of a man whose name, I think, was Mr. Mastin.He was a tall, heavyset, light-skinned Black man with longish natural hair that he wore combed straight back from his forehead.

I sat down at his desk, and he asked me about my income. Well, I told him, I only claimed what I get from my job at the doctor's office, but I actually baby-sit for my sister, and that's where I make the rest of my money.

I remember cowering in my metal-frame chair, ready for the onslaught of recrimination. Mr. Mastin asked me to come with him.

He got up, and I got up. I took my coat and backpack, and followed him through a series of hallways and doors, with no idea where we were going. He opened a door that led into the waiting room, and I followed him to the door that led onto the sidewalk.

Bewildered, I followed him outside, into the cold March air. He was not wearing a coat, but he kept walking for about half a block, at which point he stopped and turned to me.

"Listen," he said. "Baby-sitting money is something we call 'unverifiable income'."

Completely disoriented by this time, all I could say was "What's that?"

"It means that you don't have to tell us you have that money. That is for you to spend however you want, and it doesn't affect your public assistance benefits. Okay?"

I nodded. I did not quite believe what he was telling me, or it just didn't sink in right away.

We turned and walked back to the door. When we got there, he told me I was free to go. No one else at public aid ever found out about our little chat, and the food stamps kept coming for another couple of months until I was ready to stop getting them.

Two years later I was back in school and some friends and I liked to study at a diner near where I lived. We struggled with our organic chemistry over cups of coffee and plates of French fries, fluctuating between quiet concentration and noisy conversation.

One night, after we had been studying for a couple of hours, I noticed a couple that came in to eat dinner. The man looked a little familiar to me, but I could not place him.

We continued with our intermittent laughter, arguments, and silence, and I kept trying to recall where I had seen that man. About halfway through their dinner, I realized that it was Mr. Mastin.

I could not go over and talk to him without explaining it to my school-mates, and besides, I was sure he would not have recognized me.

I felt conflicted. Seeing him reminded me of the kindness he showed me.

At the time, I don't think I realized how totally and disinterestedly kind he had been to me. I imagine that there are penalties for encouraging public aid recipients to conceal part of their income.

More than just helping me keep getting food stamps for another month or two, he had shown me a caring face in the cold public aid system.

I could hardly believe it at the time, and it took a long time to sink in. The system that made me and everyone else who needed it feel totally worthless had at least one kind person in it.

Mr. Mastin and the woman he was with finished their dinner, paid their bill, and left.

I didn't say anything to him after all, or secretly pay for their dinner, which I had considered. I'm sure he wouldn't remember me anyway.

In the end, there is no way for me to ever pay him back for being kind to me that day. There is no way he could get any earthly reward for it, and he probably risked his own well-being to do it.

I only knew him for about fifteen minutes, and I'll probably never see him again, but what he did will stay with me for the rest of my life.

Personal musings:

Wilderness: Dreams of living in the wild persist and change.

All grown up: At 12 I looked like I was 20, at 24 I looked 15.

Altruism: Can you ever repay the kindness of a stranger?

Photos in a box: A package from my brother turned my memories of childhood upside down.

Short story long: How to lengthen a narrative in a few easy steps.

Writing: Going the distance to find things to write about.

Neighbors: An amazing account of urban generosity.

Snacking: The angst of a healthy diet.

Thoughts on spiritual matters:

Subway preachers: Transcendence on the Red Line.

Thoughts in the Kingdom: How do you keep your mind in heaven and your heart in the world?

After September 11: Response to an attack on a mosque in Bridgeview, Ill., on September 12.