There is a certain monotony that creeps in when feeding the homeless and hungry every weekend and hitting (for the most part) the same spots. This is a monotony you try to avoid, as you don’t want to treat this like a job or become numb to being one of God’s vehicles to help some of His forgotten children. Nevertheless, the process of getting the “bounty” (meat, cheese, bread, fruit, water) from Costco and Aldi, storing the bread, refrigerating everything else, making the sandwiches, getting socks at the last minute, putting the packages together, going out into the streets Saturday and/or Sunday to distribute everything, updating your records, and then preparing to do it all over again for the following weekend can get a little mundane.

Thanks to an anonymous (not to me) donor who had to twist my arm back in 2021, I try to give out hygiene kits (soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, tissues, sanitizer, etc…) whenever I can. There are roughly 12-to-15 items in each bag, and these kits can be a little pricey to fill because I make 30 at a time. Most of them are distributed to women (no special reason) and they move very quickly. It’s one thing to see people be genuinely appreciative when I give them food and/or socks, but these hardened homeless persons act like little kids on Christmas morning (“Yeaaahhh!,” “Oooohhh!,” “Yippee,”) when I offer them a kit.
 

The hygiene kits do add a little variety to the process, but what you greatly cherish are moments when someone or a situation stands out from the pack and really touches your heart.
Some of the more memorable this summer have been...

 

• A lady who spoke no English and was extremely hard of hearing. However, when I held up two sandwich packages to offer to her, her face lit up like a Christmas tree. She accepted and again lit up when I offered her two pairs of women’s socks.
   

• Having done this for just under nine years, I can easily spot someone in need from a distance if he/she is holding a cardboard sign. Only on the absolute rarest of occasions do I read what is written. For me it’s simply “My man, you need something to eat?” for men and “Excuse me, do you need something to eat?” for women. A few blocks down from the aforementioned lady, I saw a woman with a sign that referenced being a victim of domestic violence. Apparently, she had to get away from someone who was abusive to her and was currently out on the street with virtually nothing. Our eyes met after I glanced at her sign, as she knew I now realized her plight. She accepted my offer of food and socks and immediately started crying. To see a grown man or woman cry when I’m doing this always gets to me. I don’t know if they’re crying because of their plight or because someone was generous to them. Either way, it shakes me up.
   

• There are those you come across who you somewhat “adopt” or refer to as “my people,” usually women with kids. This time it was a young lady with two small boys; the oldest might be seven years old. They were in a familiar spot—all three sitting on the pavement, her holding a sign with a message asking for help to get something to eat, and the boys on each side of her. I saw them one recent Sunday and gave sandwich packages and socks to all three. I looked for them again the following Saturday, but to no avail. Optimism told me they had found a place to live. However, reality told me they were simply someplace else when I came through. Sure enough, I saw them in the same location the following Sunday; sitting on the pavement, the mother holding a sign, and her two kids on each side of her. I again gave packages and socks to all three. I told her I was looking for her last week Saturday, but she didn’t understand me. Besides, it didn’t matter. Last week Saturday had come and gone. Now I know… she’s a Sunday person.
   

• A lady with four small kids; the oldest might be eight. According to her cardboard sign, they are migrants. They have also become “my people.” I always try to keep something in reserve in case I run into them near the end of my route. They are either on a main street or off to the side if the sun is unbearable. The last time I saw them, I saw that eight-year-old girl passionately open the paper bag, rip through the plastic and tear into the sandwich before I could finish giving the mother enough food and socks for everyone. Hmm… So much for “Ah, these people know how to find something to eat” that I had to hear a few weeks ago.
   

• After hitting some of the regular spots, there are occasions where I may have ten-to-twelve packages left; not nearly enough to go to where there may be a cluster of people. I’ll then cruise along either Jamaica Avenue, Guy Brewer Blvd., or Sutphin Blvd. in southeast Queens looking for women with several small children. They may not be homeless but can use a helping hand. Sadly, it doesn’t take long to find them. Depending on the number of kids, I can usually distribute everything and be done. If that doesn’t pan out, there is always 108th Street on either side of Guy Brewer Blvd., which is particularly hideous. Sure enough, I recently came across two women along that stretch who were straight-up… well, I’ll be nice and say “struggling with drug dependency.” When I pulled up and asked if they wanted something to eat and also offered socks, it was astonishing to see these hardcore addicts turn soft-spoken, friendly, appreciative, and downright corporate America polished.
   

• Last year (or maybe 2022) I came across a lady who must have only recently become homeless. She had a full set of clean teeth, was extremely pleasant, and with a little touch up could have easily passed as a well-to-do member of my church. I saw her one recent Sunday and was dismayed by how much she had aged in such a short period of time. Had she been anywhere else but the spot I originally came upon her, I would not have recognized her… Sad. Homelessness will do that to you. For whatever it was worth, she still had a pleasant disposition.
   

• I was down to my last two packages one Sunday afternoon and was headed home. I knew I could always give them to a Vietnam vet who sits across the street from the Rib Shack on Linden Blvd. As I was going up Sutphin Blvd, right before I hit Liberty Avenue, I saw a young lady, and it was clear that life thus far had not treated her well. She struggled as she needed both hands to carry a beat-up Fresh Direct bag on her right side, while trying to balance something that looked like a homemade backpack in the form of rags or sheets over her left shoulder. As I got closer, I saw tiny fingers wiggling from the top of the backpack. ‘Oh ___. She’s got a baby in there!’ I pulled up, held up the two packages and asked her if she wanted something to eat. She lit up and took them. I then offered her a few pairs of socks, which she accepted. Thankfully, thankfully, thankfully, I still had one hygiene kit, which I gave her. I was so caught up in the moment, I even broke her off a few dollars, which I almost never do.
   

These are a few of many that stand out. At the end of the day, you’re glad you saw these people. At times, I’ll even tell them, “I’m glad I saw you.” The last three or four times I’ve done this; I ran out of everything before I could hit everyone up; this despite now going out with more packages than ever before. People occasionally tell me the obvious: “Marc, you’re not going to fix everything” … You do what you can.
 

Marc Taylor
August 1, 2024