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I once had a boyfriend who, when down to his last dollar, would go find a bum to give it to. He said it was some kind of magic. I said he was an idiot.
The Hebrew word Tzedakah stands for philanthropy and charity. These things are a form of social justice. The concept also teaches us that to give is its own reward. The joy of giving saves me on my darkest days. My old boyfriend was right about something. Tzedakah is not just about money. It’s about effort, and connection. Insight, and inspiration. Tiny acts of light in a dark universe.
I knew a homeless man by name when I lived in the West Village. I bought him breakfast sandwiches and tallboys. He shared stories about his former life in Miami. People (and by people, I mean Reddit) have told me this is enabling. I disagree. I was never going to stop Andy from drinking. Andy can’t stop Andy from drinking, and neither can any shelter or program that requires sobriety in exchange for a roof. What I could do was give Andy a few glorious hours in which his next beer was not something he had to worry about.
I feel so lucky to make a living as a conduit of fun, connection, and pleasure. To have such control and command over my time. I like to help (such a Virgo). I need to give, and in a way that is safe for me. Five years ago I began volunteering at a Hollywood soup kitchen. At first, I only signed up for kitchen shifts. This meant I helped prepare meals, leaving before the first seating arrived. I didn’t know exactly what I was afraid of–just that I was.
I did the same thing the first Thanksgiving I volunteered, in a large church parking lot under tents. I sorted snowflake rolls into baggies for two hours and left. I wasn’t ready to see the face that needed Thanksgiving charity – and failed to see that I was one.
During the pandemic, people stopped eating at the long tables inside the cafeteria we labored in on sunny afternoons. Instead, we sorted surplus craft services into bags as we boxed food from Michelin starred restaurants. Hollywood is not the worst place to be without a home. One day, the program director asked me if I could go outside and serve. I don’t know why I was still there that day as dinner rolled around; I just was.
My life could have been theirs.
I stood at that table, handing out food, happy we had extra, & vegan options, & food that celebrities would eat if they were eating. Our eyes met over the moment of exchange, over and over and over.
At the place I volunteered, they treat you like a gift. It doesn’t matter if you are late or leave early. They are just grateful you were there. No training session is required either – you can just sign up. My life got busier, along with their online signup sheet. I stopped going. While I was editing this piece, I got an email from them. They’re giving out hygiene kits and pet food now. The signup sheet hasn’t been so full lately. They could use help. Some kind. Of magic.
A nearby building was being renovated a few years back I got so excited. I thought it was a library, and began imagining long afternoons writing and reading, the stacks silently cheering me on. Maybe even host a storytelling open mic there.
When it was revealed that it was not a library but a women’s shelter, I was disappointed. Then I was embarrassed. Then I got mad because of my embarrassment.
At first, the women hung out all over the neighborhood, smoking weed. They liked the steps in front of my building a lot. I didn’t like that. Most people want more housing for those in need. Most people don’t want that housing anywhere near them. Over time, they just became my neighbors. I see them a lot when I’m strolling around my neighborhood. If I don’t walk at least three miles a day I’m extra difficult.
One day I was feeling desperate while driving down Fairfax when I saw the 99 Cent Store (RIP). I remembered what a friend had told me – that shelters drown in clothing and struggle for toiletries. I filled two bags and brought them. The next time I brought a pile of unopened toiletries from my own cabinets (including a pile from hotels I took and kept for no reason).
There’s the lady who I begged to take my cigarettes one night after I bought them, drunk but cognizant of the next morning. There’s the woman who likes to sit silently on the side of the building, spread her stuff out on the pavement, and soak in the sun, beams glinting off her silver hair. There’s the pair – they do everything together, whether it’s smoking blunts or saying hi to my dog. And then there’s me. I don’t live there, but I could have in different circumstances.
I was sad mid-April – a civ job I’d really gotten my hopes up about turned out to be toxic. The entire future I’d fantasized about dissipated into the sunshine like a vape cloud. I put on my sneakers – the best thing I do when I feel like this – and fell into the steady rhythm of iambic pentameter. As I turned around a Bay Laurel infiltrated with Jasmine vines, I saw the woman I tell myself doesn’t like me.
I was hiding from myself one summer because I was smoking weed again after a three-year hiatus. I sat on their little privacy/smoking spot on the side of the building.
“This spot is for us,” she said. She was right, of course. They had so little to call their own. Wasn’t it me, originally, who didn’t want them on my own stoop? It bothered me, though. I can’t hide from myself on my own stoop.
I thought of her as the woman who didn’t like me until I saw her while trying to walk off the human condition. I needed to give her my last dollar. I said I was going to the store to pick them up some toiletries, and asked what they needed.
“Whatever you get, what’s on sale or whatever, can you just make sure it smells nice?”
She told me about the prison surplus goods, unscented rollerball deodorant that requires one to stand with arms akimbo for several minutes to let it dry.
“When you’re coming from either jail or domestic violence, and you have to stand in line to shower, stepping out onto the street knowing you smell nice makes a huge difference.”
I bought orange blossom body lotion, deodorant that doesn’t ruin your clothes, organic lavender body wash that allegedly promotes sleep, lip balm that doesn’t taste like medicine and body spray. Each item is an offering of hope for more moments when you stop and think, “Life is good enough right now.”
A few days later, one of them walked by me. I’d never seen anyone walk out of that building with their head held high before. When the perfume in her wake registered, I cried a little. It’s still Passover when I write this. It made me think.
That’s where you come in, sweet reader. I’m willing to give $100 off any session to dates who send nicely scented toiletries for me to donate to the shelter.
I made an Amazon wishlist to make it easy for you:
