A DAY IN THE EYES OF A HOMELESS CHILD

One Sunday afternoon, I met a boy who asked me not for money, not for food, but for home.

He looked slightly dehydrated, his hair disheveled, eyes sunken like it carried the weight of longing for his childhood realms. He obviously was alarmingly underweight, there were several cuts and abrasions written on his lower extremeties, a subtle manifesto of the many battles he braved from the dangers of the dark alleys and cruel pavements. He appeared way older than his age, and sees life in an entirely different perspective from children his age who gets to celebrate the comfort of their homes.

He seemed a little perplexed. Probably thinking of ways to get by. Unlike other homeless who live with their families on the streets, he was alone. He had no one to share the misery. He had to go through rough days alone. He had to desperately seek for ways to fill his starving stomach alone. He had to endure sleeping in the damp and cold  sidewalk alone. 

Each morning, he’s stirred awake to the familiar steps of people in a constant rush to get to where they are heading. People who looked dead worry that they are running tardy, while he worries what to eat for breakfast. He skips it most times since he could not manage to ask for money from people in the morning. He says people in the morning are either in a hurry, grumpy, or sleepy. But mostly sleepy. On rare days where he gets lucky, someone will hand him leftovers from Jollibee and McDonald’s. And in those days he realized that life doesn’t always hit him forcefully in the head. Some days he’s surprisingly spared.

He proceeded to tell me how the rest of his day goes, and I felt obliged to listen. 

After lunch, he said, as he consistently observed, people grew moderately irritable, probably because of the relentless heat, while he grew more and more hungry, more and more thirsty. He hates it, he quipped, he hates it when he politely begs for money and people dismisses him. He was not asking for much, he was just asking for a little aid, he said one peso can go a long way. One thing he learned given the circumstances is that, it is easier for people to refuse than to give, than to show a little compassion. 

How much labor needs to be employed in reaching for their pockets and bags, or are they just afraid I’ll steal from them? Or is it plain apathy? He laughs. And what’s that nasty look I’m contantly getting from people? A look of disgust. A look of judgment. A look that steps and crushes my entirety. He said with a voice that’s about to break into tiny little voices. And the next thing he said striked me. I’m not dismayed because I was not given food or money, I can go on for days without eating. I am just downright hurt when people could always help, but they choose not to. Helping need not to be a conscious effort.

It wasn’t his fault. He told me. It wasn’t his fault that he was left out alone in the streets with no resources other than his hands and bare feet. And there it was, the trace of self-pity written all over his face.

When it’s dusk and people are freed from the monsters of their work, they tend to be a little gentle. He continued talking, their faces brighter and their spirit somewhat lighter. They are ready to accommodate his begging. In his many years of begging and wandering, he has mastered the facets of the streets, and the people who often come and go. He said there are two types of giver. First, the people who generously give with utter sympathy, and second, the people who give with a look of disdain painted all over their entire being. Of course he likes the former. What’s the purpose of giving if you look at people with contempt? Why are you giving to begin with? Is it because you genuinely want to help or you just don’t want to get home with a fire of guilt following you? He questioned me.

I give when I have some. I told him. And my purpose? Because I have some. Giving is like a law the universe created, but it’s not mandated. Always depends on one’s discretion, actually. And how much you’re willing to give. He half smiled. 

When it gets dark, that’s when it’s hardest. He said. There are all kinds of demons living on the street. Hungry stomachs who would kill in order to survive. Crazy minds who would do just about anything to keep the little amount of sanity left within. People who work for justice but are not for justice. And we are vulnerable. We are left open to be devoured. But I won’t, I won’t let them get me. He spoke with a lot of implications. 

I have always wanted to live, he said softly, somewhere safe, somewhere I feel protected —— a home—— I want to feel home. In the safety of its four walls, I have always yearned for home, a place where I can hide when someone’s after me..

Our conversation was cut short when another boy who is older, relatively taller, thin and who possessed the aura of villains in every Marvel movie arrived and aggressively pulled him by the hem of his shirt. The little boy managed to escaped his grip. But he immediately caught and dragged him. I stared at them as they gradually disappeared into the intersection. 

——-

I never get to hear how his day ends. Nor will I ever know if I’ll see him on that very same street. There are things I learned from that little boy, things I will never learn have I not stopped for a while. I came across my wondering thoughts. I wondered where he went. I wondered if he will ever find home.