The boy with no arms.

She comes up to me on the subway and kneels down right in front. She is only about 9 years old. Placing her hands on my knees, gives me the most pitiful, yet adorable look she can and says, 先生(sir). As I dig into my wallet to find some coins I　think to myself... You had me at 先... you had me at 先.

The homeless and poor have given me some memories that I don't think I'll ever forget. When I was still in elementary school, my family took a trip to Las Vegas, where I bought my first ever piggy bank. It said "I love Las Vegas" on it. Before leaving the mall, I also unfortunately let go of my balloon and preceeded to bawl like the baby that I was. My mom was so frustrated with me that as soon as we got out side she took that piggy bank and smashed it on the sidewalk. And as the rest of my family headed back there towards the van, I cried among the shattered pieces. So engulfed in my own agony I was that I didn't even notice someone else standing sitting on the curb. A homeless man with concern in his eyes leaned over, "Hey. Hey. Don't cry. It's gonna be ok. It's gonna be ok."

I used to think that in my adulthood I would go back and find him, but I soon realized that I didn't even remember what he looked like. And I also knew, that if he had even survived through my adolescence, he would not still be sitting on the curb outside of the shopping mall.

Homeless people aren't always so benevolent, though. Once in New York, some homeless guy spit on me for seemingly no reason as I was coming out of the bank. I noticed his glare on me the whole time as I was waiting for my friend. And I had wondered then like I wonder now, if he was looking at something that maybe not everyone can see. I often wonder if crazy people are actually crazy, or if they just have one foot out the door.

Outside (xiangyang market) there is a boy with no arms who sits with his shirt off. He is there every day and he is always looking down. His skin is almost perfect until it leads to the stubs that are his arms... and imperfect as they are, you can see that they had been cut with some precision. Where foreigners come from all over the world to bargain for cheap brand-name ripoffs you can gaze at the horror that is undeveloped China. But few ever look. Even I turn away because it hurts to look. In the western areas of China, underdeveloped and undersecured, children are stolen to sell to families. They are sold to couples in Singapore, Malaysia or any other place that can afford to buy lives, and in the case that they do not sell... they are used to muster up pity from foreigners.

But no one ever looks. Across the street there is a man with a boy on his lap, fallen ill. He cradles him in his arm and crowds gather around mumbling things to themselves. (he's fallen ill), I hear. And the coins fall into the cup one after another. I guess people want to know that there's hope. They find comfort in the possibility that that man is his father and that that man will find a way to make his son better.

But there is no one to make the boy with no arms better. I wonder, what could I possibly give him?

We see homeless people too much. And we always say we've become desensitized. I know that I've said it several times in the past. But it's not true. To be desensitized would mean that you don't feel anything when you see someone who's lost everything. To be desensitized would mean to lack anguish and pity. I am very much still sensitive to them. But still, I do nothing. I find it strange that someone with nothing can give me so much with a few words, yet people with everything always appear empty-handed.