So, this happened a few days ago. I wasn't aware that it was a task at the time, so I don't know if it counts, but I'd still like to tell the story.

I am, quite honestly, an intolerant and prejudiced person.

I don't like this about myself, but it is there.

Whether it comes from a strong alpha evolutionary impulse (guard the pack and all), or it's learned behavior from my father, I don't know. The fact remains: I judge and fear people who are different, especially crazy people, or those who do not exhibit socially-acceptable behavior in public.

You'd never know it to talk to me, because:
1) I'm an artist, and aren't artist supposed to be open-minded and accepting?
2) my lifelong lesson is compassion. Compassion for all people.

It's easier to be compassionate, of course, when someone is like me: looks like me, thinks like me, speaks my language, etc. Sometimes, I feel like one of those horrible people who know who "the right sort" is (secret handshake, and all.)

I talk myself down a lot. All people are of equal worth, I often tell myself. Everyone has dignity and deserves to be alive. I try, try, try to see the unique human being behind the shell. Sometimes, I succeed... and sometimes, I don't.

So anyway, I was hanging out with my cute across-the-street neighbor (who is clearly the "right sort"), when Patrick came by. I cursed myself -- if I'd seen him, I would have suggested we casually go in my enclosed front porch. But he'd seen us, and now I'd seen him, so it would have been gauche to leave.

Patrick is a friend of my neighbor, who we call St. Ann.



Ann works for the archdiocese and is deeply devoted to helping people in need. Several people from her church have the key to her house! (I think that makes her an idiot, but whatever.)



Anyway, Patrick is a resident of the neighborhood YMCA, and he's not all there. Naturally, this makes me very uncomfortable. He's about 50 with floppy, iron-gray hair, walks with an awkward, limping gait and wears a bicycle helmet all the time, even when he's not riding his bicycle. Patrick also talks very loudly, all the time, which is The Thing that sets me off.

"HI!" he said, shuffling down the sidewalk. He was smiling -- he's always smiling.

"Hi," I said, giving a little half-hearted wave. I knew he was going to Ann's, but Ann wasn't home. She was at work -- a fact which probably eluded Patrick, who had probably never had a full-time job.

My neighbor and I went on with our nerdy discussion, but Patrick came back. And came up to us. "EXCUSE ME," he said. "I HATE TO BOTHER YOU, BUT DO YOU HAVE A COUPLE CANS OF FOOD?"

I drew a blank. Surely, he can't be that hard up, I thought. "Um, the most I have is tomato sauce and maybe some creamed corn." I also had a tin of 10 year old sardines, but I don't even think my cat would eat that.

(Assume all caps from now on.) "Ann's not home, otherwise I would ask 'er. The corn would be great. I hate to trouble you." I noticed he had a blue-collar accent.



"Hold on," I said, and ran into the house. What else could I do? I discovered that I had corn and pork and beans, and brought them out.

"Oh, beans are great," Patrick said. "Thank you so much." He put the cans in his plastic bag, and headed off in the direction of the Y.

Relieved, I watched him leave, but really. What did I think would happen? I asked myself. I was really being stupid. He was absolutely harmless -- there was no logical reason for my fear.


Well, I went over to Ann's porch when she came back from work.



I don't visit a lot, so I just straight-up asked her about Patrick. What she told me made me want to vomit.

I thought I was bad, but his father takes the cake for bigoted asshole.

Turns out, his own father is still alive, loaded, and refuses to hire help for Patrick. He foists Patrick off on the YMCA, and sometimes pays the rent, all $400 / month. Sometimes, he does not, and Patrick is left to fend for himself. (And always repays his debts. How he does it, I do not know.)

His father pretends that Patrick doesn't exist and never comes to see him. During family functions, they hardly speak, especially when the trophy second wife is there.

Quickly, my initial distrust of Patrick swung to indignation on his behalf. Patrick wasn't all there, but he wasn't all gone, either. He must have a part-time job, something that many 20-somethings of my acquaintance are apparently too good for.

It's too much to hope for my eyes being permanently opened.


I know this about myself. Patrick is an exception. Due to his friendship with Ann, and my helping him despite my discomfort, I have adopted him as part of my tribe.

While I won't hesitate to give him food or lend him money, I will still be as judgmental and fearful of Strangers as I always was -- it's just that this one particular barrier has broken down.