Inappropriate Content: Turkey Day

The first time I visited the District of Columbia, my family visited a friend of a friend who worked at the Washington Post and gave us a tour of the newsroom. I had a photograph of Tuesday's front page under a calendar showing it was still Monday, but I've misplaced it and now I can't tell you the exact date we visited. In fact, now I think about it, I can't even recall the year. I can, however, recall seeing a homeless man sleeping on the grate of a subway station right across the street from the White House. This was before I'd read The Jungle or seen the photography of Jacob Riis. When I did see Riis' photographs, or read about New York in the 1880s (or 1980s), I always came back to my memory of the bum at the White House.

I was there again last night; same place, different year. I know a bit more now. I know that it's called the Metro, not the subway, and that it's a good block-and-a-half from the White House. I know that there over 3.5 million Americans are homeless at some point each year; that in 2000, 36% of those people were families with children; that in the District of Columbia, there are 14,000 people on the streets or in shelters every night. I know homeless children staying at the family shelter a less than two blocks from my dorm. I remember when I was in Philadelphia; getting up at four in the morning on Sunday, cruising around downtown in a battered white van with donuts and coffee to hand out.

Less than a block away from taking the picture above, I walked past another battered white vans. About two dozen homeless men and a few women were lined up for coffee and food. Same thing, different year.

I kept walking. I didn't have any change, and was late for take-out Chinese with the boyfriend. (Also, it would have struck the people handing out food amiss if some kid in a shirt and tie had just showed up and asked to help.)

Thanksgiving is supposed to be a holiday about appreciating what you have. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I think the proper way to do that is by enjoying what we have, not wallowing in collective guilt. We should return to the way harvest festivals are celebrated in less puritan cultures—wine, women, and song. But every now and then, a little solemnity is not amiss. So, I'm going to spend a little time today being glad I'm not out in the cold, standing in line for a white van with bad coffee and worse food.

Besides, if it means giving up wine, women, or song, I won't have any trouble figuring out which one goes first.