so much.
The sad thing is that we could have given away four or five times as many of our black bags on any given night. But buying adequate supplies for three hundred bags was expensive. We just couldn’t give away more than that. I wish we could have, and still could.
The final thing we added to what we gave away was a crazyidea I had one Christmas that turned out not to be so crazy after all. There is a child in all of us, who needs to be indulged occasionally, tended to, or at least acknowledged. But clearly, these people struggling to survive on the streets don’t have time for childish pursuits. I have always had a fondness for teddy bears, and the comfort they represent. And teddy bears to me are also the spirit of Christmas. As disappointing as the holidays can be at times, there is still a child in each of us who hopes they will be different. And since our mission was one of hope, I wanted to add a teddy bear to the bags one Christmas. It brought up considerable debate among us. Was it a good idea? Wasn’t it? Was it a waste of our money? Would anyone care, or even want them? And should we put a bear in each bag or hand them out separately? Most of the men on the team thought it should be put in the bag, to be discovered later. The women thought it should be handed out, which might be more personal and human. To be honest, even I thought that probably most of the teddy bears would wind up in a trash can or the gutter. Since 90 percent of our clients were men, and all of them were pretty rough, it was hard to imagine them seeing a teddy bear and not laughing in our faces. But I wanted to do it anyway. Something in my heart made me feel that it was a gesture they needed. And it meant a lot to me. I was willing to look foolish and at least try it.
On that particular Christmas, two wonderful ladies whoown a store donated three hundred small teddy bears; after that we bought them. But that first time was an experiment, and we all felt a little sheepish, but we bravely handed out a teddy bear, and said “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays,” to everyone who got a bag.
None of us was prepared for the reaction. The first man we handed it to must have been about six-four, a powerful man with unkempt hair, a somber face, and an aggressive expression. He looked at us, staring at the bear in his hand, and as I waited for him to throw it at me, instead he melted into tears as we looked at him in amazement. “Oh my God!” he said. “A teddy bear … I’m going to name him Oscar Junior the Second.” Apparently, he himself was Oscar Junior. He thanked us profusely and walked off with his bag full of supplies in one hand, and the bear clutched to his chest with the other. It went like that all night—huge, tough-looking men, and it seemed like there were a lot of them that night, clutching their bears, naming them, holding them, and exclaiming in delight and astonishment. Some of them just stood there and cried as they held them. More predictably, the women loved them, and often cried too. But it was the men who undid us, who seemed to unravel in front of our eyes, softening visibly, and who loved them as much as did the women. Not a single person refused a teddy bear that night, and in the many years after, I don’t think even five people refused them.
We quickly figured out that we had hit on something important, and the bears were then included in every trip. No one got a black bag without a teddy bear. The bears were magic. Somehow, with that single gesture, we had restored not only a memory of their childhood, but a tender part of their humanity that had been missing. It wasn’t just about survival that night, clothing and feeding people and getting them into warm clothes and a sleeping bag. It was about touching a part of them that had been lost and forgotten. They looked into the faces of those bears, and a piece of them came back to life as they held their bears. It was one of the most tender moments
The sad thing is that we could have given away four or five times as many of our black bags on any given night. But buying adequate supplies for three hundred bags was expensive. We just couldn’t give away more than that. I wish we could have, and still could.
The final thing we added to what we gave away was a crazyidea I had one Christmas that turned out not to be so crazy after all. There is a child in all of us, who needs to be indulged occasionally, tended to, or at least acknowledged. But clearly, these people struggling to survive on the streets don’t have time for childish pursuits. I have always had a fondness for teddy bears, and the comfort they represent. And teddy bears to me are also the spirit of Christmas. As disappointing as the holidays can be at times, there is still a child in each of us who hopes they will be different. And since our mission was one of hope, I wanted to add a teddy bear to the bags one Christmas. It brought up considerable debate among us. Was it a good idea? Wasn’t it? Was it a waste of our money? Would anyone care, or even want them? And should we put a bear in each bag or hand them out separately? Most of the men on the team thought it should be put in the bag, to be discovered later. The women thought it should be handed out, which might be more personal and human. To be honest, even I thought that probably most of the teddy bears would wind up in a trash can or the gutter. Since 90 percent of our clients were men, and all of them were pretty rough, it was hard to imagine them seeing a teddy bear and not laughing in our faces. But I wanted to do it anyway. Something in my heart made me feel that it was a gesture they needed. And it meant a lot to me. I was willing to look foolish and at least try it.
On that particular Christmas, two wonderful ladies whoown a store donated three hundred small teddy bears; after that we bought them. But that first time was an experiment, and we all felt a little sheepish, but we bravely handed out a teddy bear, and said “Merry Christmas” or “Happy Holidays,” to everyone who got a bag.
None of us was prepared for the reaction. The first man we handed it to must have been about six-four, a powerful man with unkempt hair, a somber face, and an aggressive expression. He looked at us, staring at the bear in his hand, and as I waited for him to throw it at me, instead he melted into tears as we looked at him in amazement. “Oh my God!” he said. “A teddy bear … I’m going to name him Oscar Junior the Second.” Apparently, he himself was Oscar Junior. He thanked us profusely and walked off with his bag full of supplies in one hand, and the bear clutched to his chest with the other. It went like that all night—huge, tough-looking men, and it seemed like there were a lot of them that night, clutching their bears, naming them, holding them, and exclaiming in delight and astonishment. Some of them just stood there and cried as they held them. More predictably, the women loved them, and often cried too. But it was the men who undid us, who seemed to unravel in front of our eyes, softening visibly, and who loved them as much as did the women. Not a single person refused a teddy bear that night, and in the many years after, I don’t think even five people refused them.
We quickly figured out that we had hit on something important, and the bears were then included in every trip. No one got a black bag without a teddy bear. The bears were magic. Somehow, with that single gesture, we had restored not only a memory of their childhood, but a tender part of their humanity that had been missing. It wasn’t just about survival that night, clothing and feeding people and getting them into warm clothes and a sleeping bag. It was about touching a part of them that had been lost and forgotten. They looked into the faces of those bears, and a piece of them came back to life as they held their bears. It was one of the most tender moments
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