On Guilt

After 10 blocks of marble entryways, tanned and taut 50-something women, and stern doormen, I was in a state of hypnosis. The incessant beeping of the gold garage doors, alerting me that an Audi would soon cross my path, became as expected as the beating of my heart. The fierce yipping of the neighborhood white poodle club faded into the seamless silk of the sidewalk tapestry.

But suddenly, I stopped.

He said nothing, did nothing, didn't so much as twitch. Yet the boy's intention was somberly clear. He held three yellow balls in his hands and bore his eyes into mine, drilling a well of guilt. I had never seen the street kids "working" around here, not in this fabulously comfortable nook of Palermo. They show up in other parts of the city, darting in front of the traffic paused at a red light, feverishly performing a 30-second long juggling act before dipping between the cars, hands outstretched. Watching the whole affair, my stomach tightens as I worry about the impatient driver with his foot on the gas, regardless of who lingers in the street. I worry about the ball that rolls beneath a truck, luring a kid with it. And I worry about what happens when it's too dark to juggle, when the city rushes off to ballets and operas and leaves these performers on their own.

Yet the saucer-eyed boy before me wasn't performing. Instead, he seemed confident in the power of a simple stare. I smiled at him, hoping to provoke something,
anything, to prove the street hadn't hardened him completely. I pointed at the balls, fumbling over my Spanish. He interpreted my ill-conjugated statement as a cue to start his act, so he robotically lobbed them into the air, juggling the balls exactly five times. In the glare of the car dealership, I dug through my coins and dropped a few into his hand. There ended our exchange, and my young friend gazed down the sidewalk, scoping out his next target.

I treaded across the street, slightly aghast. Had I just reduced this human being to the level of an organ grinder monkey, forcing him to entertain me before I would bestow a few centavos upon him?

The issue of guilt is increasingly bothersome here. I'm American, blessed with a fantastic exchange rate and global mobility most Argentines can only dream of. I step into a restaurant and wave my magical credit card and leave full, happy, and little the worse for the pocketbook. In many places of the city, this can be hard to handle. Yet in a neighborhood like this, wealth disparity normally feels more like something you read about in the pages of La Naciòn, next to dreary bar graphs depicting the poverty rate. Here, the folks stroll down wide sidewalks with their greyhounds and sip cocktails in posh dimly lit bars. They even wear their sweaters with the sleeves oh-so-casually draped around their necks (possibly their worst fashion faux-pas).

So no wonder my little friend chose our barrio. It was only good business sense — much like his choice to conserve his juggling energy for a situation that demanded it. Pity clearly is the wrong emotion. He knows how to get by, even when up against a tough crowd. Whether I'm in alleys crawling with cockroaches or the familiar streets of Palermo, there´s a common determination worn into the faces I pass, etched through military dictatorships, desaparecidos, economic crises. Yet equally universal is a single truth: There, here, and everywhere, my pity is the last thing anyone wants.