He was standing at a busy intersection when I drove by. What caught my attention was the small dog wrapped in a blanket that he pushed in a stroller. Also, his sign had a name on it: Leo.
It seemed every major intersection had people with signs, pleading for financial assistance. They were men and women, old and young, mostly disheveled and homeless, the detritus of an affluent culture. Couldn’t we do better, I often asked myself.
It was almost easy to drive by because there were so many of them, and so many corners, and it was impossible to help them all, even if you were willing and able. But this old man had a dog and a sign with his name on it. I must admit I’m partial to homeless people with dogs. First, I love my dog and know how important she is to me. Second, a homeless person with an animal to take care of is less likely to be an addict who will use money for drugs, or so I think. And then, most importantly, the sign … this man had a sign with a name.
Years ago, when I volunteered at Daughters of Israel, a nursing home in West Orange, New Jersey, I discovered the importance of names. I had volunteered to visit an old Jewish man who had no family. His name was Lazarus. On most Sundays, I would drive to the nursing home to spend some hours with him. At the end of each visit, in a ritual he followed every Sunday, he would say in a voice mixing resignation with hope, ”Judy, if you can’t come next week, I’ll understand.” In response, I would reassure him that I would return.
Unlike Lazarus, many people at “Daughters” never or rarely had visitors. They walked the halls with dead eyes, going nowhere and seeming to see no one. In contrast, my friend was lively and feisty. I wondered if my regular visits made the difference and what, if anything, I might do for the other residents.
I decided to learn the names of the men and women who lived on Lazarus’s floor and greet them personally when I visited. The results were immediate! Eyes would light up … smiles appear. Suddenly, these people had names. And identities.
When I thought about it, I realized that Judaism is very clear on the importance of names. The second book of the Torah is called Shemot, or Names, in Hebrew, acknowledging the importance of one’s identity. When I am called to the Torah, my name is announced along with those of my father and mother. And Adam appears open to human companionship only after he gives names to all the animals in the Book of Genesis.
All these thoughts and memories flooded my mind after I saw Leo with his unkempt appearance, dog in stroller, seeking funds, his name printed in red on the sign he held in his hand. It could have read: “Hey, look at me … I have a name.”
After that first encounter, it became impossible for me to look away. Leo was no longer just one of the many homeless individuals on a Tucson street corner. He was a person, a person with a past, a person with a story, a person with an identity.
And that is how Leo became my special homeless person.
I looked for him whenever I went by that particular corner. Sometimes he was there, sometimes not. When he was there, I gave him money for himself and his dog; when he wasn’t there, I worried about him. On a recent sighting, I asked Leo how he was doing. “Not too well,” he answered.
After that interchange, weeks went by with no Leo. Where was he? Had he died? Was he in the hospital? In spite of my giving money to other homeless men or women or even buying them lunch, Leo and I had bonded. And I found myself concerned about his welfare.
Did he have enough to eat? What would happen to the dog if he died? Where was he?
Leo seemed to have vanished. And I was in distress.
And then last week, as I approached that special corner, there he was with his sign and his beloved dog in the stroller. I rolled down my window to give him some money. “Leo,’’ I said, “I was worried about you … haven’t seen you for weeks now. I heard an old man with a dog died, and I was afraid it was you.”
“No,” he answered, “it wasn’t me.”
“So glad,” I said, as I handed him money. And then I turned my car toward home.
Judith Manelis is a writer, editor, and journalist whose work has appeared in American Jewish newspapers and magazines. Her book “This Shall Tell All Ages: Art, Music and Writings of the Holocaust” was published by United Jewish Appeal.
