Magnificent Mile

Cardboard. Corners. Those are the rules. You must make a sign from part of a cardboard box, and you must stand at a corner. In Minneapolis and Chicago it's the same. The homeless stand still. Others move past them.

Who writes these rules? Who disseminates them? Who enforces them? Because after all, the homeless we see are a very orderly bunch. They never step out of their place and, for instance, follow you down the street shouting. In fact, they never say anything at all. It's all there on the cardboard. They are mute. Unless you give them some money. Then they're allowed to talk to you. But only to shower you with God's blessings.

It's all so scripted, it makes me wonder how it can be real. Is it a scam? Or is it that homeless people have to do what is expected of them to generate optimal donations?

And the rest of us. Did we write the script so that we can use them to measure our generosity? Some days, we give. We feel good about helping someone in need. Otherwise, forget it. They're just faking it. Or they're just going to spend it on drugs.

Would we ever throw away the script? Would we tolerate an actual humanizing conversation with them? I'd have so many practical questions. Where do you sleep at night? How do you decide where to beg? How many hours do you stay here? What's your average daily take? Where do you go to the bathroom?

But then I would listen for the story. There's always a story. Nobody was born and raised on a corner. Nobody went to Cardboard Sign University to get a degree in asking for money. Nobody was sentenced to life on the corner as punishment for their sins. These are lives that must have included tragedy and loss, the stuff of fascinating stories.

And what if they were allowed to move from the corner? What if they could walk into the stores and mingle with the shoppers? Would that break the unspoken code that glues them, mute, to their places? It suits us, I think, to keep them still. In their place. Noticing them is optional.

I was recently in Chicago, staying near the part of Michigan Ave known as the Magnificent Mile, home of the American Girl Doll Store. It was the height of tourist season, and families thronged the sidewalks and stores. Teens slouched behind their parents with pained expressions. Toddlers slept, smiled, or screamed in their strollers. But it was the little girls who reigned supreme. Every girl old enough to walk on her own was carrying an American Girl doll, retailing for $115-$120. Of course, you get a paperback book with that, so it's totally worth it. The outfits and other doll necessities range from $20- $395.

Children of all ages, whether carrying an embarrassingly expensive doll or not, have already absorbed the rules of the street. Walking by a homeless beggar is the norm. Acting like you don't notice the person crumpled on the hot pavement in front of you is the norm. Hurrying toward the next air-conditioned, upscale shopping experience is the norm.

I am ashamed to say that I followed the script. But my husband didn't. Back at the hotel, he went into the executive lounge of our hotel and grabbed a cold Coke. Back on the street, he was ready.

"Would you like something cold to drink?" he asked a man on the pavement.