“Everybody’s got a story that could break your heart.” - Amanda Marshall

I’ve written here before that I’ve become hardened to the poverty and the misery that surrounds me as I walk around town; as I see people on the street and, each day, walk right past them, sometimes cutting them off before they even have the chance to begin with their 10-minute sob story about how unjust life has been to them.

I’ve become hardened to it, perhaps it’s a coping mechanism I’ve developed. But I really don’t believe I’ve lost my compassion for those individuals who are showing a willingness to help themselves. I made this discovery yesterday as I was….walking into the supermarket.

Earlier in the day, I had passed a pitiful woman who, each day, sits on a piece of cardboard outside the main entrance of the Pepper Grove Shopping Complex. Dressed in ratty, worn clothes, she sees me each time I pass, rarely greets me, and just says, in an abrupt, rude tone: “I want bread.” She then brings her change container up and shakes it a couple times.

I say “sorry” aloud, but think in my head, “You want bread, and I want you to get up off that cardboard and try and help yourself, damn it.” I’ve never given her money or bread. I probably won’t ever give her money or bread. Nevertheless, each time I pass her, she always looks at me, and with a gruff, aggressive tone, says “I want bread.”

I hate to think of myself as judgemental, but I judge each and every day I’m here. We all do. Who do we believe? Who’s lying? Who’s going to ask you for money, and, when you bring your wallet out, nab it from you?

Sometimes I try and put myself in this woman’s shoes. It’s impossible though. I didn’t live through apartheid. I’ve never been forced down by my government. I don’t live the life of a poverty-stricken individual. I haven’t—but there are hundreds of others across Grahamstown who have.

Before I saw this woman yesterday, I took a walk down High Street. There’s a 30-something year-old man who sells shoes on the corner near the cathedral. He’s part of the booming “informal” business sector of South Africa and is one person who’s lived through the evils of apartheid. I needed some flip-flops fixed. I asked him if he could help me out. He said “No, bra (brother), but my brother fixes shoes.”

“Okay,” I said with a bit of hesitation, thinking he’d want me to give him these flip-flops so he could take them to his brother, and I’d never see them again. “Where’s your brother?”

“Right here, bra,” he said, pointing behind him.

Just a couple feet away was his brother, busy repairing a pair of shoes, with a couple more on the pavement at his feet waiting to be repaired. I brought my flip-flops to him earlier today. He fixed them for 10 rand. These men also suffered past injustice because of the color of their skin—and today, they set up shop in a new, democratic South Africa and sell and repair shoes for a living.

And they aren’t the only ones.

There are hundreds of domestic workers and gardeners across Grahamstown.

There are four or five women who sit outside the main entrance of Rhodes every day with beaded necklaces, bracelets and pins. I often stop and speak with Notemba and Nowethu. They didn’t always know how to make these creations. They learned, and over time, got better at it.

There are the kids, and adults, in town, who rush over the moment you’ve parked and offer to wash your car for a few loose coins.

There are women who sell fruit on the street much cheaper than you can get it in the store.

There are people who act as human parking meters for the municipality, and charge you for parking on busy streets in Grahamstown.

There are others who sell their crafts behind the cathedral, laying them out on a blanket, for pedestrians to stop by and have a look.

There’s a man who has converted a baby stroller into a moving candy and snack shop who walks up and down High Street each day selling his stuff.

And there are these people whose notices I saw yesterday as I walked into the supermarket; who came to Pepper Grove Shopping Complex, not to sit on cardboard and demand that I hand over bread, but to hang these up.







To all of South Africa’s poverty stricken, I will never know what apartheid was like. I’ll never understand what it’s like to live hand-to-mouth.

To all of South Africa’s still marginalized folks who get up day after day with an entrepreneurial spirit, who clean cars in town, who sell woven baskets at the curb, who craft, who clean, who hang up notices begging for work, who try: you inspire me.

I buy your crafts when I can and use them as gifts for people at home.

On my walk to Eluxolweni, I will sometimes stop outside Tip-Top Butchery and buy a nectarine or a peach from the ladies who sit outside and wait for customers every day.

When I park on High Street, I don’t like it when you approach me and tell me I owe Makana Municipality 50 cents for parking, but I really admire the job you’re doing.

To the women who hung up the notices asking for work, I really, sincerely, hope that you get a job. You're trying. The odds seem impossible--but you're giving it a go.

To the lady who rudely asks me for bread each day, forget it.