> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.smdp.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # What is and what should be on the streets of SM - URL: https://www.smdp.com/what-is-and-what-should-be-on-the-streets-of-sm/ - Published: 2003-06-30T15:00:00.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-23T02:26:41.000Z - Author: Guest Author - Tags: Opinion, Promenade, #archive-import, Homeless *By John Cattish* It is a quiet evening at Santa Monica beach. As I approach this Pacific divide, I am struck by how reliably it has served to shield us from vast forms of tragedy and evil: war, famine, disease. As I walk further along the beach, I am struck — no, disturbed — by something else. Just a few blocks away, the Third Street Promenade is swarming with smiling people in fashionable clothes, weaving in and out of trendy stores, flashing cash and plastic for a CD, sweater, skirt or some other “must have” accessory. Some are plagued by disturbing thoughts of their own like, “Does my hair look all right?,” “Do I look fat in these pants?” or “Did she catch me checking out that other woman?” Most of the shoppers, I’ll bet, are pretty image conscious. All of them, I’m afraid, are blissfully oblivious to the tragedy on the beach that lies before me: a dirty, tired man sleeping alone on the sand under a lifeguard tower. Over there, “discretionary income” burns holes through the pockets of shoppers who act as if they are on the verge of spontaneous combustion as their burning desire for that last Abercrombie & Fitch sweatshirt reaches critical mass. Here, under the lifeguard tower, lies a man who could eat for a week if only someone’s heart would burn with enough compassion to forego another discretionary pair of shoes. (What’s that? “They’ll probably spend it on alcohol or drugs,” you say? Maybe, maybe not. I can’t help wondering, however, if that hasn’t become one of the most convenient, albeit effective, excuses of all time.) It is this divide — this chasm — that has now rudely wrenched my attention away from my Pacific stroll along the ocean and doggedly refuses to release it. Just a few sandy paces to my left lies a human being — a man, someone’s son, someone’s high school classmate — whose life has apparently been consumed by poverty and isolation. Three blocks east, indulgent consumers are desperately trying in vain to quench the voices that incessantly echo “More! More! More!” from the bottom of what most of us fail to recognize as an abysmally broken spirit. Ironically, deliverance for both the homeless man and the self-indulgent consumer may lie in each other. The homeless man needs someone willing to invest in him and the self-indulgent consumer needs someone to invest in. Though geographically separated by only a few blocks, socially they are worlds apart. There must be some way to span the chasm between them. My anxiety is building because, at this moment, the only thing I can see occupying the infinite black space between their two worlds is me. I am but one man, one graduate student who, fortunately or unfortunately, has become painfully aware of the difference between what is and what should be. I decide not to startle the man under the lifeguard tower and head for Third Street. Shortly, I arrive at the Promenade with a bag of $1 burgers in hand. Shoppers and strollers are here too, many with dates in hand. On most nights, I admit, I’d switch places with them in a heartbeat — but not tonight. Tonight I am doing exactly what I am supposed to do. I am being exactly who I was created to be. I see a man wearing a winter coat and what appears to be several layers of clothing underneath, hanging onto a shopping cart full of blankets and stuff. “Would you like a burger?” I ask. “Sure!” he says, with a sunny smile not even slightly dampened by his missing teeth. He is Joshua. He used to run a small business with his wife of 22 years. In 1998 they both got sick and neither had insurance. He recovered, she didn’t. Because of their mounting medical bills, their business had to be liquidated and auctioned off. As he tells his story two things are constant: his smile and his desire to remind me that, “God has been good to me.” “Some people might question how you can still say that,” I say. As if to prove his point, he responds with a laundry list of blessings that God has bestowed on him. If someone asked me to list all the blessings I’ve received, I’d probably start stammering within 10 seconds, tops. Joshua has forgotten his burger, he’d rather tell his story. On the next block, a white-haired 76-year-old woman with a bruised eye won’t stop smiling and laughing and clapping. She is Betty. Although Betty is less willing to share how she arrived at this point in life, she proudly shares that God has used all her circumstances to make her a better and stronger person. Throughout our conversation she reiterates how happy she is. If you saw me looking as happy, you could safely assume I’d been drinking. On the next corner, a small black man wrapped in a blanket sits in the doorway of a bank. He is Moses. “Would you like a burger?” Within seconds he is bouncing with enthusiasm. I wish everyone enjoyed talking to me as much as these people. Moses asks me if I know God. I say I do. “How do you know God?” he asks. I sheepishly mumble something about scripture and the spirit. “That’s it!” he replies. “The Spirit of God!” He throws off his blanket, jumps up and his whole body comes alive. “The power of God is right here with us! I can feel his presence! Can you feel him?” I say, “I do.” I want to believe that’s what I’m feeling, but I’m never sure. Maybe it’s the psychologist in me. “I feel his presence on you!” he says without a hint of doubt. Moses continues to bounce along to the rhythm of his sermon, while my insecurities won’t let me forget the passersby and what they might be thinking (damned if even now I can’t stop thinking about myself). Once Moses wraps up his sermon, I tell him how much I enjoyed it and hopefully I’ll see him again. He turns up the heat on that beautiful warm smile and says, “Let me get a hug.” It’s not one of those one-hand-ever-so-cautiously on my side and the other giving me three quick strategic pats-on-the-back-type hugs. He stretches both arms all the way around my body. His warm open hands press tightly against my back. Rarely do I feel so genuinely appreciated. As he lets go, he smiles and says, “God bless you brother!” In think — I hope — that Joshua, Betty and Moses might rub off on me. I feel as good tonight as I’ve felt in months. However, I’m afraid that if I stop to think about how little I’ve actually done and how much more there is to do, my joy will fade too quickly into sorrow. So I don’t think about it — not tonight. Tonight I have much to be grateful for: Joshua’s story, Betty’s laugh, Moses’ embrace. Tonight, I — a young, white, middle-class graduate student with unlimited opportunities for success — was blessed by the joy and strength of three people whose sum total of earthly possessions could be pushed around in a stolen shopping cart. *Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on June 30, 2003.* [Read the original PDF.](https://s3.us-east-1.amazonaws.com/smdp%5Fbackissues/063003.pdf?ref=smdp.com)