A year before the launch of With Actions and in Truth, Inc. in 2015, I was part of my church’s Sandwich Ministry that‒on a monthly basis‒delivered sandwich packages to a family shelter in Southeast Queens and then to the numerous men who were hanging around outside of the Brooklyn Armory at Bedford and Atlantic Avenues. Our ministry “leader” pointed out that we were going to see an increase in the number of needy people during our travels as the weather got warmer. Quite frankly, I thought it would be just the opposite; that they could fend for themselves in the summertime but would have a greater need for our helping hands during the winter season. Clearly, he was correct. The cloak comes off in the late spring and summer months, giving a clearer picture of the homeless plight. My apologies… You’re not supposed to say ‘homeless” anymore, as the new politically correct term is “those facing housing insecurity.”

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     In the past two months, I have seen a considerable increase in homeless women with young kids; easily, five or six occurrences along my midtown Manhattan route. In the previous year or two, I rarely saw anyone outside of my “friend” on 25th Street / 6th Avenue, who had a son (maybe eight years old now), a daughter perhaps a year or two younger and (I assume) infants in a two-part baby carriage. People passing by did somewhat “take care of” her. While I would be in the process of giving her and her kids however many sandwich packages they wanted, along with socks and (when in season) gloves and hats, others may drop off a box with half a pizza in it or a bag containing a comforter. If it were bitterly cold or raining, they were nowhere to be found. As much as I would have liked to have given her food and a few other items, I was glad that she and her brood were not out there in truly inclement weather. They disappeared for a little while, and when I did not see them one particularly warm early spring day, I asked one of the regulars across the street if he knew what happened to her. He replied that she moved back to Chicago. “That’s where she came [to New York] from. She went back there because it’s a better situation for her.”  That explanation made absolutely zero sense. I knew she and her kids were migrants with virtually nothing. How and why did she come to New York from Chicago and how did she have the means to get her family back to the Windy City? Nevertheless, I accepted it and hoped she and her children did move on to a better situation. Sure enough, a week or two later, she and her two eldest children resurfaced at 25th Street / 6th Avenue. I noticed that the baby carriage was gone. I almost never get into the personal lives of these people, but I asked what happened. I did not quite understand her answer, as she speaks very little English, but she did mention “ICE.” … Sad… Whenever I see them, it is a good day or two before I can get them out of my mind. Stuff like that stays with you for a while.

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     I had to shut this down from March 2020 until April 2021 due to covid. When I started up again after the pandemic had somewhat subsided, there was a group of five people (four men, one woman) at any corner of the intersection of 23rd Street / 7th Avenue. I think their problem was booze. On occasion, I would see a half-pint bottle of rot gut sticking out of someone’s pocket. Sometimes I would see the whole gang; sometimes it was just one or two. Little by little, this crowd got smaller. I saw the lady gradually shrivel up to almost nothing, and I was later informed she died from cancer. Soon there was only one original left, and a newcomer. There were occasions when I ran out of everything before I got to 23rd Street, but I tried to keep something tucked away until I got to their location. I would give whatever I had: extra sandwich packages, hats, gloves, scarves, hygiene kits, etc.… If only one were around, I’d leave enough for the other, as I knew he would soon return. One Saturday afternoon about six weeks ago, I saw the “newbie” and asked if he wanted to take for his friend. He told me he hadn’t seen him since Tuesday. “Is he okay?” / “I don’t know.” / “If anything were wrong, you’d know about it, right?” / “Not really.” This went on for a few weeks, and I knew it was not going to have a happy ending. Sure enough, he told me two weeks ago the last of my 2021 originals had died … Can’t exactly say he lived a good life or that he didn’t get cheated. … Sad.

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     In Queens, I was fortunate (or maybe unfortunate, depending on how you look at it) to have come across a new “cluster” of homelessness. While giving out a few packages on 196th Street / Jamaica Avenue, a young lady walked by and asked if I was giving away food. The first thing I noticed was that she was sporting a black eye. I gave her two packages and a pair of socks. She then alerted me to several others in the block of 196th Street by the church. The change from winter to spring to summer has also brought out a surplus along South Road (now Tuskegee Airmen Way), Union Hall Street, and 107th, 108th and 109th off Guy Brewer Blvd.; areas of Southeast Queens I would not be caught dead walking around in. [NOTE: I travel through these parts by car‒never getting out‒and distribute sandwich packages and socks through either of the front seat windows.] Many of the recipients are clearly struggling with drug dependency. You can easily be judgmental and say, ‘They brought it on themselves,’ but that may not necessarily be the case. Not everyone was dealt the same hand. I don’t know their stories, and I don’t ask. Either way… stuff happens. Nevertheless, they are people and have in many ways become “my people.” There is one lady in this bunch who I have somewhat “adopted.” Quite frankly, I do not know what is holding her up. When driving along those strips, I usually keep an eye out for her. On occasion, she would ask me if I had any cookies or candy, as she was unable to eat the fruit. I always gave her my standard response: “I’ll see what I can do.” About a month ago, she replied, ‘You always say that” and I felt bad because she was right. I got a pack of cookies and left them in the compartment of my car between the two front seats. When I gave them to her the following week, she lit up. “Ooo, you remembered.” She then asked if I had any T-shirts. Again… “I’ll see what I can do.” I mentioned her to a neighbor and, true to form, she went out and bought several T-shirts and a bag full of junk food. So, now, I’m giving my adoptee two sandwich packages, at least one pair of socks, a T-shirt and a package of cookies or candy. I told her, ‘I’m spoiling you, ain’t I?’ and she sheepishly smiled. My neighbor gave me another batch of new T-shirts and I told her, ‘You need to stop spoiling this woman. She gets enough from me, at least in comparison to everyone else.’ She suggested I ration them out and not give everything to her at the same time. Last weekend I brought three with me. I figured I’d give one to the lady who asked for it and the others to anyone else. I saw my adoptee, gave her everything and offered her a second T-shirt that had snagged on a shopping cart and now had a teeny hole in it. She took it and I figured I’d keep the last one in the back seat until the following weekend. A brief time later, it hit me… “Hey, Marc. It’s a T-shirt. Why are you going to keep it in the car until next weekend? Go ahead and give her that third shirt.’ It did not take long to find her. When I did, I motioned for her to come to the car, and I gave it to her. I even confessed, “I was going to give this to you next week but take it now.” She did and said she was very appreciative of all I have done for her. That always makes my day. Like my midtown Manhattan “friend” with the kids, there is something about the plight of my adoptee that stays with me for a few days.

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     More people in the warm months translate into more socks. Four or five years ago when I started up again after the covid pandemic, I may have given out 30 – 40 pairs of socks a week, tops. That number is now up to nearly a hundred. I’m somewhat tickled by how finicky people get when it comes to socks. It’s nothing for women to say something along the lines of, ‘Ooh, do you have a blue pair? I’m wearing blue today’ or ‘No, I don’t want that color. Lemme see what else you got.’ And then from some of the men whenever you offer them a pair of ankle socks, ‘Yo, I don’t be liking them shorty-shorts. You got something longer?’ Why bother to play the ‘beggars can’t be choosey’ card? If I have it, I will give it. To me, it is only a pair of socks, but to them it means so much more.

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The July 4th holiday weekend this year was particularly brutal, with temperatures reaching nearly triple digits. Sure enough, at one of my spots (I won’t say where), I saw what I expected to see: one of my “regulars” dozing off on her rollator, while wearing her winter coat. The reason was obvious: she wears it year-round because she has nowhere to put it.

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​I was recently asked, “Does any of this ever get to you?” and I responded, “Sure, all the time,” but not that it will ever stop me. I know what I see is not even half of what they go through. You give them a pair of socks and something to eat, and they’re hungry again the next day. With some, there may be a little small talk or slight flirting. It draws a smile or a laugh, which is good, because I know they don’t laugh much. You keep it moving until you’ve given out everything. You exhale for a day or two and the start prepping for the following week, hoping you may see your “friend” and “adoptee” along the way.

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Marc Taylor​​

​​August 24, 2026