An Apology of Sorts

As a Catholic, I am called to treat people well. It was that Golden Rule that Jesus was so fond of, which, paraphrased, is something along the lines of treat others the way you want to be treated. More than that, though, I believe myself to be a bit of a humanist. I vote Democratic, worry about social reform, feel strongly for the need for welfare and socialized medicine, etc. etc. Generally in my life, I try to be a good person to everyone I come in contact with.

And this weekend, I completely failed. As a Catholic. As a humanist. As a decent human being.

At the end of a fantastic half-week with Catherine on a whirlwind tour of England's modes of transportation, we were on the Piccadilly Line from Rayner's Lane to Acton Town, from which we would catch the Piccadilly Line into Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3. As I am fond of doing due to their higher ratio of seats to passengers, we boarded at the back of the train, and I immediately was overwhelmed by a pretty awful smell. The floor of the train was covered in some sticky water and an older woman was huddled over in a seat near the door. It seemed clear to me: this older woman, possibly homeless, had wet herself.

Having come from Chicago, I have some experience with homelessness. Due to the inclement and drastically shifting weather, Chicago's homeless population is not as massive as San Diego, Los Angeles or San Francisco where the weather never gets very cold (or New York, where there is always more of everything). That said, there are still a fair number of people who ask for money or food as you make your way across the city.

Over my time spent commuting into the city, I have become extremely jaded. Besides the countless stories I've heard about people possessing as homeless or needy make significant money preying on the sympathy of others, I once saw a woman claiming to be on hard time, begging for money and brazenly talking on her iPhone. At the risk of sounding like a Republican, I work hard for the money I make, I don't own an iPhone, and have a hard time giving money to someone who does.

So here I was on the train, confronted with a similar situation. I made my way to a drier part of the train and we took off towards the airport. In Chicago, when I encounter homeless people on the public transportation, I find they generally don't want to be bothered, using the train or bus as some sort of mobile shelter from the rain, snow or blistering, humid heat. So I took that route with the older woman.

About five minutes into the ride, though she started moaning. Low and inaudibly at first, but louder, and more pleadingly as the train got closed and closer to Acton Town. I kept counting the stops, praying I could get off the train before I had to deal with this woman. After some time, it became clear what she was moaning about: she needed an ambulance and wanted someone to help her call. I had a phone, but I sat there silently ignoring her pleas.

At one point, a young woman, probably in her twenties, boarded the train and noticed something was wrong. She sat near the woman and started asking her what she needed (which was a call to the hospital for an ambulance). Reasonably, the young woman tried to tell her that there were emergency phones located at every stop and she needed to get off the train and use one of those. The older woman persisted, claiming that she was paralyzed on her left side, an asthmatic and so on. She was not making much sense (after all, how could a paralyzed woman make it onto the train in the first place), seemed disoriented and was slurring her speech. Either she had had a stroke or the smell earlier was alcohol. I actually found myself growing annoyed, both with the young woman for encouraging the attention the older woman wanted, and for both of them slowing down my journey.

At some point, a young man got on the train, found out the situation, and at the next stop, got the driver's attention. He came back to the car, got a station attendant, and got the woman off the train. When she stood up, the empty bottle wrapped in brown paper rolled on to the floor and I felt validated. See: this was her own problem she created, and I didn't want to give her undo attention.

I dropped Catherine off at the airport, extremely sad to see her go, and got back on the Tube headed towards Leicester Square, and then on to Euston Street. Since that time, I have not been able to stop thinking about that woman. And more so, I sometimes find myself overwhelmed by a feeling of regret: I should have done something. I was on the train with that woman, begging for help, for four stops before someone else helped the situation by talking to the train driver. She wasn't asking for money, she wasn't asking for me to do something extraordinary: all she wanted was help off getting to an ambulance. Granted, she was drug, belligerent to those who did eventually help her, and probably had gotten herself into this situation through no one's fault but her own; still though, it wouldn't have hurt me to just get the train driver. Someone else did, and Catherine still made her plane, I still made my connecting train, and our lives continue in relative comfort. Really, my jadedness led to an inability to help out someone who needed nothing more than a little of my time.

And having spent the last three days from 8:00 am until about 12:00 am indulgently writing a paper about comic books, time is something I have. So, to that older woman, and to all those who I callously have passed asking for nothing more than a moment of my time, I'm sorry. I'll try to do better.