1981 School Magazine

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But We All Trudged On

His dark, emaciated hands were shiny and greasy in the feeble sunlight as he gorged himself on a mere handful of food. His dark, lank hair shrouded his lace and the steam ofa cold mor- ning emanated from his lips. I wondered how much warmth his crumpled cardboard box home gave him in this below zero weather. He clutched an old-fashioned, woman's pink sandal in his lap as he shivered in his tatteredjeans and decay- ing jumper..At first I did not see him until a movement caught my eye; the slow, rheumatic movement of this claw-like hand to his mouth. An eager group oftourists gazes out offoggy bus windows at the bustling city of New York. As they descend the bus stairs and begin to walk down a street in Chinatown, every one ol them nearly steps on this man. Some trudge past, perhaps blissfully unaware of the poverty-stricken scene or wanting to ignore it; some stop and look and a few even take photographs of the grotesque scene, something to stick in a

scrapbook to bring back memories. The man does not notice; he eats his rneagre meal in silence, in his own little world which not one of these tourists would want to share with him. Mr. Pauper, I do not know your name; I never spoke to you, but I remember you - and how many other people do? Are you as destitute as you look, bereft olall except a few scanty, worldly goods? How many like you exist, just simply existing but not really living? How many others suffer this degradation? I hear of people like you but rarely see them. You have taught some people more about poverty than they want to know and yet you have not spoken or even looked at them. You have taught me how we must think more about people like you. Mr. Pauper, are you warm tonight in your cardboard box home? We should have stopped and helped you. But we all trudged on.

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