I remember walking down 3rd South going to see The New Pornographers at the Twilight Concert Series. On the corner across the street from Pioneer Park was a woman with her daughter, the things she owned, and a sign asking for anything. In San Francisco we ignored a man asking for money in exchange for a homeless newsletter because we were in a hurry to get back to our hostel to eat our burritos and talk about the experiences we had that day in out attempts to help and feed the homeless, rationalizing that we would probably just have spent the money on drugs anyway. Walking to our cars after the Bright Eyes show at Pioneer Park last week I laughed at a man holding a sign that said, “Aliens are after me, need money to get away,” and walk right past him. Standing on the Corner of 4th and Main I feel really awkward and stare straight down, waiting for the train to pass so I can cross the street, so I don’t have to make eye contact with the dirty lady asking for “anything helps.” I see a man sitting against a building across from the Gallivan Plaza Trax station with a hat filled with some change, and I start to reach for my wallet but stop myself when I realize I don’t have anything smaller than a ten, and plus I’m in a rush.

This weekend I found myself sitting on the corner of West Temple and South Temple with some friends, holding a sign asking for money and food. Here I was something less than human, to be avoided at all costs rather than acknowledged as the fellow upper-middle-class white Utahan that I really am. During this one hour tenure as a pan handler, people who passed by our corner avoided eye contact, looked the other way, reached for their wallet and changed their mind, avoided crossing the street at our corner, skirted the edge of the sidewalk as they walked past and waited for the lights to change and generally just pretended we weren’t there. Children stared as parents shook their heads. The occasional chuckle at our attempted humor “Will slow dance for food,” disappeared when, after 30 minutes and still no money, our cardboard sign was changed to simple “Hungry,” and this after the 2 motorcycle cops sat behind us for twenty minutes.

One side of this equation I am in a hurry, judging, awkward, and unwilling to part with my two dollars. On the other I’m the butt end of these prejudices. Left offended, dehumanized, and invisible by those very same things I’ve do every time I see someone sitting on the street asking for permission to eat lunch.