A Sonnett to Pizza, lovingly entitled: "Pizza Mia."

I wrote this sonnett in a Renaissance Poetry class, and though my memory now fails me as to the details, yet I do remember something about a pizza-filled review session which I would not be able to attend. Regardless, it was evidently inspired by the throes of a passionate hunger for pizza. Enjoy!

~

PIZZA MIA.

Away with all this talk of studied verse,
For each new word reminds me of my curse:
I see the pepperoni, never mine;
And cheese, possessed of such a flavor fine—
my splendid, absent mozzarella wine—
O Pizza dear, for you alone I pine!

Some blessed day this May I may consume you
And in my darkened labyrinth entomb you.
But 'til the sun ariseth on that morn,
I rub my vacant cavity, forlorn.
This longing wills that I had ne'er been born,
But here, I think, I am, and I am torn.
If given minutes, months, or million years,
Pizza—you would quench my hungry tears.

HoBoy!

Do you have any weaknesses? Something that makes you uncomfortable or uncertain, that freezes your better self in its tracks and calls you with a siren’s song to a disappointing mediocrity? Of course you do. So do I. We all have them. It’s just a matter of figuring out what it is. Take Superman, for example. He can fly around downtown (if I may borrow Matchbox 20’s verbiage), leap over buildings in a single bound, and yada yada yada--but put him in front of a green Kryptonite stone and he’s about as strong as Sammy Sosa without his steroids. That poor sap, Superman--he has a glaring weakness, and he can’t get rid of it. Luckily for us, we are nothing like Superman. We can fix our weaknesses.

Up until very recently, hobos were one of my weaknesses. It’s true. Speaking in front of a crowd, I could handle. Complaining at a restaurant, not a problem--and sometimes even a pleasure. But dealing with a hobo? Yikes! If a hobo on the street asked me for money, my mind would freeze and I would go into deer-in-the-headlights mode (okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit, but “deer-in-the-headlights mode” is a wonderful phrase, and I had to include it). In all seriousness, though, such a situation, common as it is in urban areas, was one of uncertainty and discomfort. On one hand, we have the societal (and in some ways religious) push toward simple acts of charity, which is often represented as giving money to the poor folks in the streets. Although this is a shallow characterization (more on that later), it is nonetheless the message we often see in movies and hear in sermons. People like to think of giving monetary handouts as a righteous act.

On the other hand, there is the common sense view which many (or perhaps most) of us were raised with--people begging for handouts on the street need money for booze and/or drugs; or, at the very least, they are lazy fools who could just as easily take orders at McDonald’s as they take handouts at State and Madison (to paraphrase Michael Jordan’s provocative anecdote).

Sometimes this common sense view is confirmed in comically obvious ways--such as the case of the young man (in the prime of his life, no kidding) who trudges through traffic daily at the same intersection, year-round, with a sign that says “Please help me, God bless you.” It would seem obvious to everyone except the man himself that his daily activity is both strenuous and risky--and the honest occupation of coalminer would not only fulfill both of these criteria, but it would also yield a steady paycheck and a peaceful intersection. Yet there he is, and there he remains to this day.

But some hobos are convincing (and, no doubt, some are completely kosher). But that’s just the problem--the stakes in this game are higher than they seem. As wonderful as it is to help a man in honest need, that’s how horrible an act it is to give money to an addict. In such a case, we are actively assisting a destructive habit-- bringing the poor soul one step closer to oblivion! If that’s charity, then I missed something in Sunday school.

The point is, we cannot just give money to people. We might be doing them a huge disservice, far greater than ignoring or refusing them, in doing so. The risk of someone’s life is too great to play around with. Heartless as it sounds, there is no other way.

So here’s the question: why is it so hard to refuse? A recent situation forced me to face the issue once and for all. I was walking to the car after eating a wonderful lunch with my Mom, when a man in a heavy coat (in retrospect I should’ve known, but I didn’t take a good look at it at first) asked me if I could spare a few dollars for gas (in retrospect I should’ve known how many holes there were in that kind of story, but remember? by this time I was already in idiot mode). Hmm. I had about 4 seconds to respond…what to say? I wasn’t actually going to give him any money--most of the money in my wallet was borrowed from my Mom and was not mine to give--and regardless of that, I didn’t want to risk a theft. No question there. I wouldn't give him any money. But how to say no? I hummed and hawed for a moment, then rattled off some lame excuse about my Mom having all the money. Feeling slightly shameful (which I’m now ashamed to admit), I parted by saying “I hope you find some, though.” Then I realized that I was in the presence of an angel.
No, it wasn’t the panhandler. That’s how it usually gets shown in movies, I grant you (and Hebrews 13:2 should by no means be taken lightly), but in real life it was the exact reverse for me--the angel took the form of a blond-haired female passerby of about 35, who brazenly addressed him after my comment by saying “And I also hope you find somewhere to work, because you come here to beg every day!” I got into the car and processed what I’d just seen. First, I couldn’t believe that woman’s guts--I didn’t know they made people that confident anymore. I admired that. It was also at that moment when I realized the thinness of the hobo’s request, and the absurdity of the shame I’d felt. To have the man’s chicanery exposed with such blunt words of witness was like a blow to the head--except it felt great. My illusions were gone!

I say that that woman was an angel, because she lifted the wool of ignorance and deceit from my eyes so that I could see the truth within this one isolated situation. In seeing the truth, I realized that my shame was totally unwarranted--the man was proven to be a con-artist! Even if he had been on the level, shame would not have been a good response. I had my reasons not to give, and that should be enough for anyone--especially myself! I knew then and there that a confident response of “no” would have sufficed, and would have been the proper way to retain my dignity (which, the way I see it, I flushed down the toilet in this situation).
Most important of all, it should be realized that the only proper attitude of a panhandler ought to be one of the sincerest and humblest entreaty. Money, after all, is not easily earned in this world, and to receive it as a free gift from a stranger is not only a rare, but almost a miraculous occurrence. Shaking a cup, or halfheartedly muttering “God bless you” just doesn’t cut it for me. A panhandler ought to realize the flabbergasting fortune of his situation, notwithstanding his dire straits--he is alive, and (in most cases) possesses the opportunity to interact with the wider world (an opportunity widely sought-after in lonely nursing home rooms and hospital beds across the world). Seriously. They have no place asking someone else for a handout, so they ought to be amazed and overjoyed at the mere fact that anyone even responds to them. At presstime, such behavior has not yet been observed in any hobo. And as for me: Shame? Are you kidding me? Well, I know one thing: I wasn’t kidding when I acted like a fool in that parking lot.

I realized that day, thanks to the intervention of the “angel” (who actually happened to be a salon stylist who worked in the same complex where I’d been dining, and so was privy to the hobo’s daily occupation in the parking lot), that my weakness happened to be hobos. And unlike Superman, my weakness was dissolved with a simple and conscious act of the will (along with some more in-depth reflection…evidenced by this blog post). From now on, if I am accosted by a panhandler, I will not give them money, and will be proud of it. If I respond to them, it will be to say, quite simply, “No.” I simply will not. If I am ill-judged at the end of time for adopting this stance, I will hang my head in remorse before my Lord--and without a doubt, my shame will be justified. But I’m betting against that ending. I think a weakness has been obliterated--and that’s good enough for me!