I am working in downtown Boston again. My workplace is great and I really love that I walk through the oldest park in America every morning. What I don’t love seeing are the homeless men and women who make Boston Common their home. I find it difficult to understand why there are homeless people in the first place in America, but that is another topic for another time.

A few weekends ago I helped out at one of the many homeless shelters here in Boston, which I try to do occasionally. On these occasions I sit and talk with people and learn that they end up homeless for many reasons, such as loss of a job, mental illness, and domestic abuse, to name only some. I continually try to grasp the levity of what it must be like to be homeless, as well as reach out to the homeless population and understand their plight.

I also work another job in Harvard Square in Cambridge. For the most part, the homeless population is different there than in the Common. Many of the people are actually young adults, where they sit with their guitars and dogs, and with signs that state, Homeless, young, free and hoofing it – can you spare some money for a song? Interestingly enough, I almost feel as if these young people are mocking their homelessness; almost as if it is “cool” to be homeless in Harvard Square. I don’t get that notion from the homeless in Boston. I really can’t imagine it would ever be cool to not know where your next meal is coming from, or where you will sleep that night—guitar and dog, or not.

Thanks to my mother, I have a special affinity for the homeless. When I was a kid, growing up in Pleasanton, CA, I went to San Francisco several times a month with my mom for her appointments in Union Square. In the Square, there was a special man there by the name of John. It is because of my mom and John that I learned not to be afraid of the homeless and actually acknowledge their existence as human beings. I can’t remember how old I was when my mom first befriended John, but what I remember are interactions that I carry with me as positive and valuable childhood memories. John was homeless, from Ireland, and lived outside Macy’s, below a window display that faced the Square. I was both leery of and fascinated with John.

My memory of him might be skewed to fit a kid’s memory, but it is a good memory, that makes me smile nonetheless. I recall he had missing teeth, a scruffy face, and bad breath. He smelled of dirty clothes, cigarettes and old food, had a raspy voice, and he had an Irish accent. He was so foreign to me—the Mexican-American, living in an East Bay suburb, surrounded by upper, middle class, mostly Caucasian people. Yet, at the same time, I was intrigued by his presence, his smile, and the hint of mischievous playfulness he had in his eye. What I also loved about John was his dog, Snoopy. Snoopy was a terrier mix and looked nothing like the Snoopy from the Peanuts series. He wasn’t an overly friendly dog, mostly, because he was very protective of John, but was a sweet, smelly dog, and to a kid who looked at the world with eyes wide open, this man and his dog were what I most looked forward to when I went to the City.

I secretly loved Snoopy and, I secretly loved John. I loved that he stood for everything I didn’t understand. I loved that he stood for everything I didn’t live with. I loved that he smelled. I loved that he was kind. I loved that every time we stopped to say, “Hello,” I’d sit and pet Snoopy and people would walk by, do a double take, looking horrified that this little girl was hanging out with her mom and the homeless guy. To me, John was the antithesis of all I understood my comfortable life to be. I remember thinking, He sleeps here? Outside? Isn’t it cold? Scary? Dark? Lonely? As I look back now, John represented all of what it means to be human—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Not debilitated by his situation, John was somewhat happy with his life and I believe he chose to live that way because that is what he felt most comfortable with.

If only we could all do that…

Macy’s let John and Snoopy sleep on their property most nights, unless the police asked him to leave, in which he’d turn up again a week or so later. I guess you could say he was kind of a Macy’s fixture—the Macy’s homeless representative: an icon for the hope of the homeless. Always in the same window, always singing, always smiling, always ready with a greeting, with his dog, and his “bed” made up for the day, and his possessions in their place. Sometimes I wonder what I didn’t learn from these interactions—they impacted me that much.

After my mom and dad divorced, I saw John maybe three or four times until I heard he died. I look back on those memories as invaluable in making me who I am today. My mother’s acknowledgement of John as someone who existed was paramount to his existence. He was valued, by my mom, by me, and by everyone who knew him. My mom took the time to find out his name, where he came from, asked him how he was doing, buy him coffee or a meal, and gave him time. He never once acted inappropriately, or asked for more than we gave. He was just living his life, in a Macy’s window, with his beloved dog.

As Thanksgiving approaches I always think of John when I watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on television. Although it is the Macy’s in New York City and not San Francisco, I thoughtfully remember this man that I really didn’t know, yet, impacted me in ways I cannot articulate completely. I sometimes wonder—did he have a family? Was he ever married? Why did he come to the USA and how did he end up homeless? What did his parents do? Does he have extended family that know of his legacy as a homeless man? Where did he get Snoopy? These are intriguing questions, that unfortunately will never have answers.

What a gift my mother gave me and more, did she realize what a gift these interactions would be? I highly doubt it. For she was just doing what felt natural and right. She befriended a homeless man and let him into my life as well. In that, I thank my mother for that gift of recognition of all people as humans. It is a gift all parents should pass on to their children in any way they can. For it is in that gift that I have found myself comfortably conversing with Wahhabist Muslim men in India, a Bedouin man in Jerusalem, homeless men and women in Boston, Branch Davidian members in Texas, the Mufti of Banaras, and countless others around the world. I am comfortable with people all over the world, and I believe that partly stems from a childhood of sitting and learning from a homeless man in San Francisco. What a gift, indeed.

Image taken from Wikimedia Commons, a “media file repository making available public domain and freely-licensed educational media content.” The link to this image can be found at: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/69/HomelessSleeping.jpg