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the life of a Street Musician
Some call them homeless, others call them buskers, and some call them street musicians. Whatever name they may be called by, they sit on the street corner and play an instrument for money. Most have seen one of these people before, but have we ever stopped to talk to them or care to ask them if we can get anything for them? Most of us just walk by quietly; others judge them; some will even aggressively attack them with their words, or actions. We see them as filthy, dirty people that need to get a real job and quit begging us for food and our hard-earned money. 
What if we have too many preconceived notions? We tend to judge them before we actually know why they are playing music on the streets. They are not all there simply to gain spending money for drugs and alcohol. Some are there because they love music and failed in all other areas of life and now are doing all they can to make a living. Some were abandoned as children or teenagers and had no other option than to drop out of school and doing something to support their siblings.
I can remember the one day I met a small, skinny boy of the age of sixteen who had lived his life as a street music, here is his story:
Jake lifted his eyes up in to the pouring rain, today he had to sit under the eve of a building in the downtown of New York. The city could look so dark and scary on days like this. Well, to Jake every day in this city was dark and scary. Like the walk home late at night always scared him, there were always at least five shady looking people that followed him with their eyes every night, sometimes more. Every day was a day he was scared he was not going to make it home. He knew he was lucky to even have a place to call home.
Both he and his little sister had been abandoned by their parents two years ago, they had been fortunate enough to find a man that rented a tiny, dark, and filthy room in his basement to them. Every night they could hear rats scurrying around on the floor. At first they had been terrified by the sounds of their claws clicking on the hard cement floor, but after a time they became accustomed to it. Jake tried to think of them like he thought of himself; just a poor animal that had been abandoned and that no one loved and cared for. It was very humbling for him to compare himself to a rat, but at the same time he knew everyone else saw the resemblance. 
He was seen as filth by most, every now and then when he was playing his guitar on the streets he would gain a smile or a pat on the back, and if he was lucky some change, sometimes he even made a few dollars. It did not matter to him whether he got a penny or a dollar; everything helped. A handful of change could buy some day old bread which he and his sister would eat as their one meal for the day.
They had learned not to be greedy and to be grateful for what they had, but it was hard seeing people wearing nice, clean clothes; people that obviously had a few dollars to spare but simply turned up their noses and walked away. They would not give to someone who could go earn money elsewhere, but had they never thought that this was his only form of making money? They did not understand what had happened to him and that this was indeed his only form of making money for him. Of course, Jake and his sister could go to the courthouse and tell how they had been abandoned by their parents and then possibly get adopted, but they did not want new parents, they did not want anyone else to abandon them. The only ones they could trust were each other. They thought they could trust their parents, but they were proven wrong.
Jake did not understand how or why they had abandoned them. Maybe they had not, maybe for some reason their parents had to disappear. Perhaps they would come back for them, but that was only wishful thinking. Jake knew they had abandoned and they were on their own now. No one was going to help them. That also scared Jake, the world he had known and had trusted was, all of a sudden, turned upside down. Now he knew not who to trust and who would keep their word.
This had been a world that once showed promise of giving him a good life, but that promise was empty. There would be no glory in this life for him. He would always have to live on the streets, barely being able to make money, being judged for not having what most would consider a “real” job. It was a real job though, but no one would ever see it that way.
It was very easy for him to feel depressed, especially on days like this. The cold and the rain soaked through his old, torn clothes and left him feeling totally abandoned and miserable. No one would ever understand him or what he was going through; no one would ever show him compassion. He looked down at his guitar, for some reason it reminded him of himself: worn, battered, and just tired of being used. He was tired of being looked at as a wild animal and a beggar. He wanted more out of his life than this, he wanted to be more than what people thought of him as. He wanted to be a respectable, and pleasant boy. Never would he get that chance, unfortunately; he would always be a looked at as quite the opposite.
Jake looked up to a man that was giving him a dirty look. “Yes? Can I help you?” Jake asked. The man looked down at him, the dirty look getting more intense by the second. “Yeah, get off the street and quit begging,” said the man. “Never once did I ask you for anything, and you have much; but I have little, and you ask me to give up my only form of making money,” said Jake, he stood up, picked up his guitar and stormed off into the rain. “Have a blessed day, sir. I hope all your dreams come true, and I actually mean that. Mine never have, but I hope yours do.” Jake called over his shoulder.
That day was the day I met Jake in the rain on a stormy day in New York. I was the man that had given him the dirty look. Later that day I found him, he shared his story with me and opened my eyes to see that they are not all bad people; they are not all filthy people; they are not all drug addicts and alcoholics. We all have too many preconceived notions and are too quick to judge. Next time you see one of these people, do not just walk by or give them dirty looks. Hand them a dollar, or simply just give them someone to talk to. Next time you see one ask why they are out on the streets playing music, do not just judge them. Who knows? Maybe they have a sad life story and just need someone to show them kindness.