*Disclaimer: The names in this article have been changed by the author to protect each individuals’ identity.

Last week I went to deliver a letter at a church. I wandered around its empty parking lots for a while before I spotted the mailbox. I noticed a couple of men standing close by. One was tall, the other much shorter. The small man was unsteady, bending backwards as he tried to hold up his bag. Each had their clothes, food, and toiletries in tow. I introduced myself to the tall man and explained I was trying to deliver a message for so-and-so. I asked if I was at the right place. He nodded yes. I slipped the envelope into the mailbox and turned to leave. Then the smaller man, who was paper thin, asked me why I was there, who I was with, and whether I could help him. I told him I was an intern investigator for the county. We struck up a conversation. 

His name was Miles. He said he thought he had cancer, but he couldn’t remember what the doctor said all those years ago. He told me he had legal issues and no way to check up on them. No phone, no computer, no email, no nothing. The lawyer couldn’t contact him. The information he needed was the kind he couldn’t get. I listened for half an hour to the story ringing sharply from his cracked lips. I noticed his voice deepen each time he swayed forward, righting his back and chest. But the heavy bag slung across his shoulder always drew him away, and he’d twist backwards. Over and over he tenderly suggested “no one should end up like this.” That painful rhythm signified his struggle, his yoke; if only he could throw it off. 

I nodded. I promised to check on his case. In the meantime, I told him, he could go to a library and use their public computers to create an email address. He thanked me profusely before I turned to go. I walked back to my car and started the engine. As I merged onto the highway it struck me that Google requires a phone number to create an account. Miles doesn’t have a phone. He lacks what we can instantly access: the information he needs. I hadn’t helped. 

You don’t need to work for the county to reach the conclusion I came to: pity is abundant, empathy is not. If you live in West Campus you’ve probably noticed a gentleman in a wheelchair that has lost both his legs. I remember offering to run to a corner store for him. He pleaded, “I don’t want to inconvenience you, but thank you, really, thank you.”

A few months prior, as I was approaching a red light, I noticed a strange figure. It looked skeletal against the evening horizon, just off the median. I thought I was imagining it. A torso stood on two rods, clinching a sign with two more. I stopped to chat with him. I wondered how he lost them, but I felt I could only voice how sorry I was. His face puckered, he said “I’m fine, I’m just living, I need encouragement, not pity.” A great visceral dread came over me as I pulled away.

We’re single-minded college students, suburban beneficiaries. We’re secure and connected, but we’re also profoundly confused. We know studying is necessary. We strive for a stable job at whatever nameless corporation. The rat race is our unspoken religion, carefully shaping how we think of ourselves and our friends, our past and our present, our future and its conclusion. This pretense is so finely ingrained in us that it incessantly scolds our collective imagination. Of course we can imagine a better future, but we can’t taste it, touch it, or hear it. We will never build what we can’t conceivably touch. We’ll remain distant individuals. Each of us have common circumstances but separate dreams; common grievances with separate solutions; common humor and alien emotions. 

I woke up in the dead of night a few weeks ago. I couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went for a drive. I flew towards an underpass illuminated by a strip mall. An intersection appeared. As its bright green light changed red, a man leaned over a woman in a wheelchair and pushed her forward. I stopped and rolled down my window. “This is my son, Neil,” she said smiling. She must have been in her late fifties. Neil must have been my age, a year or two older at most. They were spitting images of each other. “We lost our house,” she continued. “He just applied for a job and once he gets it we’ll be in so much better shape.” Neil stared blankly at me, then with a weak smile glanced down at his mom. It was a cold night. I told them to stay warm. They couldn’t. The richest nation in the history of the world has nothing else to offer. The light changed green. I waved goodbye and drove home.