The Blog Name Panhandling Philosopher

The Name Panhandling Philosopher

Written by Dan McDonald, the panhandling philosopher

 

            I remember only a few reasons for selecting “The Panhandling Philosopher” as the name of my blog site. My college minor had been philosophy, but I always felt I never quite understood what I was reading. I received good grades from the classes but only because I was better at figuring out what instructors wanted to hear than what I actually understood. It took me decades to understand that I habitually read to gain personal insights while I failed to read to analyze and understand what the writers themselves were saying. By putting Philosopher into the title of my blog I signaled that the blog would be in regards to what I was thinking. Adding Panhandling to my title softened the potentially high claim that I accepted my thinking as anything authoritative. I would express my understanding of various topics as a way of speaking my mind while hearing the perspective of others.

            Originally a photograph was to capture the spirit of my blog. The photograph would include me, my dog next to me on my leash, and me holding a dry erase board with something like the following written on it – “The Panhandling Philosopher – “We will think and write for fine ales and good ribs.” A friend was to shoot the photograph. Then tragedy struck. My dog, earlier in his life had been inflicted with heart worms, and though he recovered, his heart was weakened and so he died just days before the photograph was to be taken. He was a good dog, well at least quite a character, and I still miss him.

            Recently events have helped me to appreciate the name Panhandling Philosopher in a new way. I live about three miles from where I work. On my drive to work, I drive near some overpasses and under some expressway bridges. Last year, in summer if I recall correctly, a woman began living beneath one of those bridges. I paid little attention at first. Then she remained there the entire summer, into the fall, and on into winter, into this spring, and on into this summer. Seeing her there every day became a part of my driving routine. After a while and never stopping I started to feel more like the guilty Levite that the Good Samaritan. Interestingly, she never held a sign asking for handouts. She simply lived under the bridge, and I am sure took handouts, but never advertised any need.

            I began to think about how one day I would stop and introduce myself and greet her. I wanted to make sure that I did it in a sort of neighborly manner. I figured asking her how she ended up living under a bridge would be something akin to saying “You know this isn’t the way you should be living?” I figured there had to be a better way to say hello to her than doing anything like asking her to give account for why she lived under a bridge.

            I decided on a plan. Following church one Sunday I stopped at a book store and made a few purchases. I bought a set of colored sketching pencils that included an eraser. I bought a sketch pad, a journal and a small set of pens for keeping a journal. I drove near the underpass and parked my car on a nearby street. I told her that I had passed by her living here for several months. I added “I’ve started thinking of you as someone living in our neighborhood. I presented her the items as a housewarming gift. She seemed moved and expressed that this was her first sketch pad in probably fifteen years. If I had been better at what I was doing I would have asked her if she had enjoyed sketching. I fear I acted more to be in repentance for being the Levite who passed her than as the Good Samaritan simply seeking to be kind. I realized in meeting her that she was a genuine human being and not something less or a caricature of a human being. Sometimes I fear when we talk about the down and out, or the homeless or other versions of people we imagine caricatures of a successful human being, rather than actual human beings.

            I intended to visit again a few days later. In the meantime, a man started living on the other end of the bridge. Within a couple of days she and her few possessions were no longer there.

            This experience has given me a new appreciation for being a panhandler. Things happen in life. We lose our sense of direction. Sometimes we do that without losing our jobs, or our houses. Sometimes we lose hope and then almost everything we have, we have only in a most fragile manner. I can so much imagine being the person that has lost my grip on the whole of life. I can imagine living under a bridge and a passerby hands me a sandwich from a downtown restaurant and then I think of another panhandler and offer them my sandwich because sometimes eating with someone is better than eating alone.

            I also realize I have never been an original thinker. Pretty much always I have lived as a panhandling philosopher who has been given something to think about by someone else.