Days of the Locust

A couple years ago, I audited an African-American literature class, taught by a virtuosic professor who wove music and art and American history into a syllabus that was symphonic in its complexity and power. His performance as the conductor of this score was life-changing, for me at least.  Among the homework assignments was to attend a retrospective of the African-American painter Kerry James Marshall. In the following class, he asked students for their response to the exhibit. One young woman said her experience was spoiled by the presence of “old white ladies.” The scorn with which she uttered this epithet took my breath away. For one thing, I was the only old white lady in the class—most of the other students were young people of color—so I felt like an intruder under a spotlight. Which in a sense I was.  I wasn’t offended. In fact, I almost savored this little taste of being the object of racial, ageist, sexist hatred. It was experiential education. I told a friend about the

A friend recently repaid my purchase of theater tickets with a $100 bill. She expressed relief at unburdening herself of this inconvenient currency. And I understood why. Of what use was this denomination for the kinds of everyday purchases we tend to make: a $3.99 bunch of asparagus, a $9.99 T-shirt, a $1.99 cup of coffee, a $15 movie ticket. No merchant ever seems to have change for $100. So it’s a tar-baby bill. And I was stuck with it. Or it was stuck to me. Other, of course, had the solution: Go to the bank and cash it in for smaller denominations. Which I did. But on my way there, I started imagining what would happen if I inadvertently gave the $100 bill to a panhandler. Initially, that person might feel that her ship had come in. But it would be even more difficult for her to use than it was for me. For one thing, a merchant might be suspicious of a homeless person trying to pay for anything with a large bill. Police might even be called. Virtually no one--except maybe a drug

I’m not religious and certainly not Catholic, but there was a time when Pope Francis seemed to have a bead on life’s little conundrums. A couple years ago, he solved my niggling worries about giving money to panhandlers who were clearly drug addicts or alcoholics. I’ve always given money, but I often felt conflicted about it. “Help is always right … even if [the beggar] spends it on drinking a glass of wine,” the Pope said. If “a glass of wine is the only happiness he has in life, that’s O.K.” So for the past two years, I’ve felt comfortably virtuous as I placed small bills in the hands of begging women. (I have only so much walking-around cash, and there is a limitless supply of outstretched hands in my neighborhood, so I made it a rule of thumb to give only to women, which satisfies an urge to restack the cards—this time in favor of the sex least favored in life.) I took care to look into their eyes, and to place—not drop—the bills, making sure to touch their hands, as the Pope adv