Explanation

So the last few posts are different versions of the same story. For my creative writing class we had the assignment of doing something we would never normally do and then write about the experience. So I had the bright idea to dress up like a homeless person and go a-beggin'. It was a very interesting experience and I actually highly recommend it. As you can see from each version of the story, it was a positive experience for me, as well as a learning one. I'd love to get a consensus on which story is the best. Enjoy!!!

Beggar version 2

I’ve always wondered about giving money to the homeless. I mean, nobody wants to be a sucker. But nobody wants to be heartless either, or at least I don’t. So every time I see someone on the side of the road by a freeway onramp I don’t know what to do. I remind myself of urban legends about bands of bums living in expensive neighborhoods but I’ve never been able to peacefully ignore the imploring eyes and reality of a human being, feet away, begging.

So I decided to try it. I called my boyfriend and told him the idea and he just chuckled. I could see him in my mind shaking his head as told me he’d help. I planned out exactly what I would wear all that week, my paint splattered oversize navy blue sweats with black rubber lace-up boots, the type that could double for army combats boots if they had a mind to. On top I layered a faded black hoody underneath a thick cotton zip-up jacket that barely fit over it. I hid my hair under a frazzled blue beanie and put my hood on overtop. I didn’t know I was ready until I came out into the living room. As a girl from next door walked into the apartment she asked if I was homeless. I replied with an enthusiastic “Thank you! Just what I was going for!” 

Walking up to the front of the store was terrifying. I slowed my steps and tried to think of every sad thing I’d ever experienced to calm the jitters and giggles threatening to give me away. It was your average grocery store, with the exit and entrance doors only separated by a few feet of concrete wall, just enough room for two garbage cans and one medium size girl, cross-legged with a cardboard sign and empty cool whip container. To be as honest and ethical as possible I simply wrote, “Hungry and Cold” on my sign. My object in this experiment was never to trick people, although I realized that would be necessary to have an authentic experience. I wasn’t going to say anything that wasn’t true and I wasn’t trying to steal. What I wanted wasn’t money. I wanted knowledge, maybe even a little wisdom if there was any of that going around.

The cement was colder than I had anticipated and I huddled in on myself, lowering my head as far as it would go and crossing my arms across my chest to keep out the cold. I let myself hang, pretending to sleep as I listened carefully to each sound. When your heart is beating a mile a minute every rustle and footfall are suspect, representing some living thing out there in the darkness. 
I have never felt so exposed in my whole life. 
It was like one of those crazy dreams where you find yourself in public wearing absolutely nothing and with no power to do anything about it.

I started wondering if I was going to make anything at all when I heard the first jangle of coins clash as they hit the bottom of my plastic bowl. I muttered a muted thank you as the footsteps retreated, never raising my head but feeling a strange constriction around my heart. It was no more than a dollar, but I felt a curious swelling of emotions. My analytical mind descended on this surprising development, trying to trace its roots and dissect its meaning or significance. As I felt people passing by, following the trail of their footsteps with my mind, I willed each passerby to stop, to pause and make the decision that I was a human being. I wasn’t just another garbage can sitting on the pavement. I was human. I was alive. I wanted them to recognize that. It wasn’t money they were giving me, it was an acknowledgement that I existed and that I had a part in their world.

I felt a small shudder as a hand gently shook my shoulder. Reflexively I uncrossed my arms and felt a petite hand press a crumbled five dollar bill into mine. I mustered a soft but heartfelt ‘thank you’ as the two soft brown boots walked away. The bill remained encased in my fist as I returned to mock sleeping position, a cacophony of emotions playing in my mind.

The next shake took me by surprise as well, and shook me out of my reverie.

“I’m sorry but you can’t stay here,” said a young voice, I’m guessing the supervisor on duty. “Can you look me in the eye?” he asked.

I slightly lifted my chin but I couldn’t meet his eyes and my lip quivered as I felt the impulse to cry, like a frightened child.

“Where do you live?”

“The Provo area…” I murmured as I slid out of the cross legged position and picked up my pitiful equipment. I had to go or I knew I’d lose it.

“I’m sorry!” he called as I made my way down the sidewalk towards the street.

My getaway car picked me up as I rounded the corner.  I looked over my shoulder and then hopped in, hoping no one who gave me money saw me switch back into a person of means.

“How much did you make?” my boyfriend asked, grinning.

“How long was I out there?” I responded as I looked into my collection bin for the first time. There was one roll of dollars and a scattering of coins. “It can’t be more than ten bucks,” I said.

“You were only out there about twenty minutes.”

“Really?”

I made a total of $8.80 in twenty minutes, which if you do the math means I was making $26.40 an hour,  or would have if I’d lasted that long. I guess Friday night would probably be considered prime time and that needs figure into my conclusions as well.  Beggars can make a killing, but somehow that doesn’t affect my original question.

Will I give in the future? Yes. Not so much because I can sympathize now and not because I feel like they deserve it. I just can’t afford to forget that anyone is a human being. That would hurt me more than it could ever hurt them.

Version 3

Walking up to the store was terrifying. I slowed my steps and tried to think of every sad thing I’d ever experienced to calm the jitters threatening to give me away. It was your average grocery store, the exit and entrance doors only separated by a few feet of concrete wall. There was just enough room for two garbage cans and one medium size girl, cross-legged with a cardboard sign and empty cool whip container for contributions.


The sign read “Hungry and Cold.” My object in this experiment was never to trick anyone, although I realized that would be necessary, but I would do my best not to lie. I’d always wondered about giving money to people begging. I mean, nobody wants to be a sucker. But nobody wants to be heartless either, or at least I don’t. So I decided to give begging a try.


The cement was colder than I had anticipated and I huddled in on myself to keep out the cold. I let my body hang and  pretended to sleep as I listened to each sound. In danger and darkness every rustle and every footfall are suspicious, representing some living thing that sees you, considers you, and then does something to you, whether to ignore, judge, pity or pardon. I've never felt so exposed in my whole life. I didn't dare lift my head, desperate not to make eye contact with a passerby.


I was wondering if I was going to get any contributions at all when I heard the first jangle of coins clash in the bottom of my plastic bowl. I whispered ‘thank you’, following the trail of my patron’s footsteps in my mind. It was no more than a dollar, but I felt a strange swelling of gratitude. As more people passed by I willed each to stop, pause, and make the same decision. I wanted them to recognize that I wasn't just another garbage can sitting there. I was alive. It wasn't money they were giving me, it was an acknowledgement that I mattered.


I felt someone shake me by the shoulder lightly and a jolt of fear ran through me. All I saw were her brown boots as she pressed a crumbled five-dollar bill into my palm with a warmth that made me genuinely want to cry.


Will I give in the future? Yes. Not because I can empathize now and not because I feel like the hard work of begging deserves it. I just can’t afford to forget that anyone is a human being. That would hurt me more than it could ever hurt them. I want to be the girl in the brown boots, no matter what a beggar chooses to do with that crumpled five.

Beggar version 1

I’ve always wondered about the homeless. I mean, nobody wants to be a sucker. But nobody wants to be a miser either, or at least I don’t. So every time I see someone on the side of the road by a freeway onramp I feel the fight inside me resume, naiveté vs. pragmatism, urban legends about bands of bums that live in expensive neighborhoods vs. the imploring eyes and reality of a human being, feet away, begging.

What would that be like? Opening yourself up to the pity, eyes and aspersions of the passing public, everyone and everything invited to observe you in this space you’ve ended up in. Your world is the people happening past, and their reactions to your face are how you construct your views of yourself and the world. For somebody like me, what would an experience like that feel like?

Well, you could have trouble at first, with getting into character. The game of deceit is such a temptress of giggles and smiles.

You could sit down any old place, in front a grocery store for example, cross your legs and realize how cold cement is. Then you might set out your little tin can and prop up a cardboard sign you agonized over writing from the warmth of your apartment.

You could close your eyes, bow your head and pretend to sleep, half from desperation not to make eye contact with anyone.

You could realize how egocentric each sound becomes in danger and darkness, how every rustle and every footprint are suspect, representing some living thing that sees you, considers you, and then does something to you, whether to ignore, judge, pity or pardon.

You could feel a slight shake as your head hangs down and to the side, your neck aching, and mutter an amazed thank you as a girl in brown boots presses a crumbled five-dollar bill into your palm with a warmth that makes you genuinely want to cry.

Yeah, you could learn a lot of things.  Who knows, might even do you good.

Bridle your passions

This is 'the gospel according to Kate', so bear with me. I've been hesitant to give commentary on anything religious because there is so much in life I haven't figured out just yet. But I wanted to share what has been on my mind.

I've been thinking about whatever it is that makes the difference between gritting your teeth and powering through, sticking with something or giving up. Drive. Ambition, desire, motivation. Whatever you call it, I've been thinking about that.

The best word I've found to get at the underlying idea is passion. This word lead me on the thought train to a scripture in the Book of Mormon. Alma 38:12 says, "See that ye bridle all your passions."

Bridle is most often used in association with horses. I've never heard in a context besides these two. Is the meaning the same? Do we bridle our passions like horses are bridled?

The definition of bridle on Dictionary.com says that it means 'to control'. I have always thought of this control as beating my passions into submission, as if they needed to be bullied and broken to be controlled. But that's not what is done with horses. Yes, to bridle them you must be firm, but it also requires patience perseverance. And then what happens? We ride them. We use that energy to get places we could never have gone on our own.

I think bridling your passions isn't squashing them, it's putting them to work for you. When you decide what you want you can channel your passion in that direction. It's like a damn. You are focusing that energy and directing it so that it's useful.

So that's the gospel according to Kate, or at least Alma 38:12 according to Kate. Amen, hallelujah!

Loosing track

Electrocuted pigeon falls from sky into residential area. That's not one you hear every day. I guess it’s not quite as newsworthy as a tipsy Italian cruise ship or the latest greatest terrible Hollywood sequel, but he haunts me. Have you ever seen an electrocuted anything? 

Picture this: A soggy, water-logged family, sun-burnt and frazzled from a day tearing apart the lake. They pull up the home drive, desperate for bed, bath, passivity and motionlessness.  But the command is given. Nobody does nothin’ until the toys get put away. Rusty, crumbly unidentifiable objects are bullied and broken to create a boat sized hole in the dank garage, as little effort expended as possible. And then, as the boat is settled into its misshapen berth, a loud POP shatters the air.

Not the car. Not the boat. Not the house. Each constituent of the little group takes stock of the world around them, observing what they had only see with eyes half open up until that moment. A frenzied fluttering storm cloud of feathers trembles beside the fence. Tottering and staggering like a drunk, reeling, the miserable pigeon tries to take flight. He flips painful-looking somersaults amid jolting unnatural convulsions and tremors that toss his body like one possessed. The people look on, quiet, until he is reduced to an inert pile of gray.

I don’t know why I still remember him so well. Maybe I just can put myself in the place of someone who misses an ugly black wire while staring at the immensity of the sky.