BK Life #1

A few weeks ago, I had the rare opportunity to spend an afternoon alone with M.  After picking him up from school, we headed to Prospect Park.  As we passed the street vendors in front of the Brooklyn Public Library at Grand Army Plaza, M asked if he could have a "giant pretzel" for snack.  Wanting him to feel the same sense of joy and appreciation of our time together (read: yes, I use food to buy my kid's happiness), I agreed.

Just as I said, "One pretzel, please," to the vendor, a homeless man (this is assumed, of course, but at the least, he was low on disposable income and personal hygiene) asked if I would buy him some food.  Still caught up in the lovely spring afternoon with just one child, and wanting to be a role model for M,  I asked the vendor how much a hot dog cost.

"Two dollars," he replied.

I turned to the homeless man and said, "Ok, I will buy you a hot dog."

He responds, "Actually, could you buy me a shish-kabob?"

My mouth actually dropped open at the audacity of this man. I want to help those who are less fortunate than me, and I want my son to want to do the same.  But if you are going to beg me for food in front of my kid, and I agree, then take the darn hot dog and say thank you!  What I actually said, though, was "No, I am not buying you a shish kabob."

I told the vendor we would just be getting the original pretzel.  The homeless man jumps in and says, "Wait, you're not buying me a shish-kabob and a soda?"

When did the soda enter the equation?!

I looked at him, and just said, "No."  To which he responds, "Fine, I guess I'll take the hot dog."

"No, now I'm not buying you anything. Have a nice day."

Pretzel in hand, we hurried away.  Was this the right response? Was it somehow even more patronizing than simply refusing his initial request?  One of the challenges of raising kids in an urban setting is coming face to face, on a regular basis, with real poverty.  Most of the time, M and N have no idea what they are seeing.  Preschoolers and toddlers don't know about social cues, about what clothing and language and other physical signs tell us about each other.  Another time, on the same walk past the library, there was a mentally ill man walking up the sidewalk shouting angry rhetoric at the sky.  M wanted to know why he was angry, and he also asked if he could tell the man that he wished he could be happy.

I explained that some people are just angry, that it's a sickness just like when N has an ear infection.  That it's not his fault, but also that we weren't going to talk to him.  Do I want my children exposed to these realities of life so early?  I want them to be compassionate, and have perspective on just how privileged our lives are.  But they are also my kids, and I want to protect them, shelter them, and keep them safe. 

It turns out that M was so focused on getting the coveted pretzel that he missed the entire hot dog-shish kabob exchange.   Score:  Child 1, Over-analyzing Brooklyn mom 0.