Teens Opposing Poverty

Before September 11, 2001, we could park vehicles inside the Ellipse, a large oval park
behind the White House. On the 15th Street side of the park stands the Boy Scout Memorial, a
statue of a Boy Scout in uniform flanked by a nearly-naked man and woman. I never could
figure that one out. A hot air vent that blew out warm air from the steam tunnels below the
ground was located nearby. The roar of the fans and the slightly unpleasant odor made it difficult
to spend much time close to it, but homeless people lived there.

The youth group from Front Royal, Virginia was there with food and clothes for the
homeless people. Once we established our work area at the memorial, one of the homeless men
told us about some other men who were sleeping about a block away. The teens and other adults
continued to serve while the assistant pastor and I made our way to Pennsylvania Avenue to find
them.

Just as we were told, we found three men lying on a steam grate. The first was a big man
with a kind face and a deep but soothing voice. The second was a wiry, small man who did
nothing but give us the evil eye when we approached. The third man never woke up. He stayed
buried in his blankets.

When we explained what we were doing, the big man got up immediately and was ready
to go with us. We shook hands, and I reached down to shake hands with the wiry man. He
ignored it, held his place and scowled at us, with a hateful glare in his eyes.
“What do you got down there?” he asked.

“Lot’s of good stuff, clothes, hot food, stuff to drink,” I replied matter-of-factly.

“Why should I believe you? You white people always lie to us. I fought in Viet Nam, man. You
can’t pull nuthin’ on me.”

“Suit yourself.” I said, and we turned to walk away.

“Hey man,” the wiry guy said to the big guy. "Bring me back somethin’”

The big man stopped and turned to him. “If you want somethin’ get it yourself.” He turned and
resumed walking.

The wiry guy cursed and slowly got to his feet. For the next block I heard more cursing than I
cared to remember. As we neared the intersection at 15th and Pennsylvania Ave. The wiry guy
looked at me and mumbled. “Ya’ wanna’ see my gun?”

“No.” I was sure he didn’t have a gun, but I didn’t feel like calling his bluff.

“You don’t believe I have a gun, do ya’?”

“No I don’t.”

He opened his jacket, but all I saw was a ragged t-shirt dangling loosely from his nearly
emaciated body.

“I don’t have a gun. It’s you white people have guns to shoot us whenever you feel like it.”

His tirade continued as we came into sight of the memorial. The wiry man’s street name
was Weasel. As we walked the last leg of our short journey, I began to question the wisdom of
bringing him with us, but something told me it would be alright. I turned to look at the assistant
pastor. His jaws were popping in and out from where he was clenching his teeth in anger.

The big guy was already getting something to eat when we arrived. Three of the teens
came up to Weasel and introduced themselves. His expression softened. They asked him if he
wanted something to eat, but he said he’d rather look through the clothes first. The teens helped
him. In fact he could have never gotten service that good in the finest retail store. He got a bag
and began stuffing his new clothes in it as one of the youth got him some food. Weasel was now
smiling and joking with the teens. For the next forty five minutes he ate, drank, laughed and told
stories to more than a half dozen young people. It was hard to imagine that this was the same
man who was cursing and scowling less than an hour before.

Finally he stood up, said goodbye to the teens and walked over to the assistant pastor and
me. Smiling, he held out his hand, and I shook it.

“I was wrong about you, man. Thanks. I’ll never forget today.”

Neither will I.