Street People: Human Filth and Real Threat

“Sir! Sir! Sir! Sir! Sir! Change? Change? Sir?”

The barking continued unabated for half an hour. The disheveled black man, shambling about in front of a shopping facility downtown, accosted each person who passed him on the street entering or leaving the building. He was wearing one sneaker and carrying the other. Literally barking at the top of his lungs, he sent a barrage of begging at every individual he saw.

He was quite obviously mentally deranged, chemically altered, or both. He was dirty and probably carried any number of diseases. Several people cringed or otherwise backed away when he approached them.

It made me furious.

What right did this scumbag have to bother people in this way, to demand what they have earned simply because he had the gall or the guts or the lack of shame to stick out his grimy paw and shout for it?

I got out of my car. The creature accosted me, his staccato demands for change alternating with his rapid-fire attempts to get my attention. “Sir! Sir! Sir! Sir! Sir!” I simply stood there and stared at him. He did not approach, so I did nothing. At that moment I felt more hatred, more loathing, than I think I have ever felt in my life. He did not know how to react to my complete lack of response, so he stopped shouting at me. Eventually he wandered into downtown traffic, still carrying one sneaker.

The very next day I was again downtown, checking the tire of my car after bumping the curb while parking, when I heard a voice behind me.

“Excuse me, sir? Excuse me, sir?”

I ignored it. There is no one downtown to whom I need to speak on the street. When the query was repeated, this time more loudly and closer, I stood and whirled on the speaker.

He was, predictably, a panhandler, though he looked less obviously insane and was a little less dirty than many. Muttering something about wanting two dollars to buy a bagel at a nearby coffee shop — the surest sign that you are being panhandled dishonestly is when the beggar offers too many specifics about what he is going to do with the money — he was approaching me with his metaphorical hand out.

When I started training in kung fu, we were taught that a potential threat must not be allowed to close within striking distance of you. You must attack the opponent preemptively when he enters this range. When approached by someone whom you do not trust, we are taught, you must put up your hands and maintain a safe distance. As the panhandler approached my first thought was that I must, at any cost, keep him outside that distance — or else I would have to strike him, as I did not want him approaching me.

You see, every panhandler you meet IS a potential threat to your health and your well-being. Under no circumstances whatsoever should you allow a street person to approach you. More importantly, nobody has the right to violate your personal space without your consent. Let me say that again:

Street people do not have the right to approach you.

Something clicked in my head. I was so angry. I thought about the way street people decrease the quality of the lives of every honest man and woman who walks down the sidewalks of my city, harassed and intimidated by beggars who believe the world owes them something for nothing, societal parasites who see nothing wrong with simply asking for what others have earned because they think they have some claim on the labor of others.

I pointed at him, bringing my rear hand up in a subtle approximation of the double Wu Sau guard that is the default hand position in Wing Chun Kung Fu.

“Step away,” I hissed.

Now, I’m not describing this because I think I’m cool or because I think I have the ability to put the Fear of Phil into random strangers. I was simply enraged and I spat at this beggar with a hostility I did not realize I possessed. I reacted instinctively — but my instincts were, in this case, developed by training that simply took over under stress. I was pleased that when I needed it, I did not have to think about it. That is the goal of training to defend yourself for real-life problems.

As I pointed and glared at him, that street creature froze in his tracks. He actually apologized, turned, and scampered off in the other direction as if I’d threatened to kill him. I looked down at my hands, exhaled, and was immediately hit with an attack of the shakes as the adrenaline dump had its way with my nervous system.

I was a little shocked at the vehemence of my reaction — but I was not sorry.

The reality of the homeless, of panhandlers, is that the overwhelming majority of them have mental problems, drug dependencies, or both. Crazy people and people “on something” are the most dangerous of all potential assailants because they are completely unpredictable and not deterred by actions or words that give rational people pause.

How many women must be harassed and made to feel physically threatened simply trying to get from home to work and back again? How many honest citizens must be made to feel somehow guilty for daring to work hard and lead productive lives simply because some grasping, filthy beggar demands a hand-out? How many people must wonder if they will contract lice, tuberculosis, hepatitis, or other communicable diseases when forced to work and walk in close proximity to the vile refuse of humanity? How many commuters must be stabbed with fucking used hypodermic needles before we recognize the danger?

Panhandlers should not be objects of our pity. They are potential threats who must be recognized and avoided.

Their need does not constitute a right to victimize you.