“Hey! Uncle Joe! Gimme a dime!”
Huh?
I was minding my own business, walking down a crowded, noisy street in downtown Fortaleza, a bustling city of almost 2 million in northeastern Brazil. It was late 1983 and I had been living in the city for the past year. Very few people knew my name, much less who I was. I was a virtual whitecap in an ocean of waves.
That’s when he called me. “Hey! Uncle Joe! Gimme a dime!” When I turned to look at who was calling me, I saw a little kid in the dirtiest pair of shorts and t-shirt I’d ever seen. His flip flops were held together with twine, his hair looked like it was angry at itself and was upset at having to stay on his head. But it was his eyes that held me spellbound. Blue as the winter sky. Intense. Full of a life lived longer than his apparent 10 years, yet with a glimmer of hope. Confused. That’s what I was. “Who is this?” I thought. “Do I know him?” “How does he know my name?” Seeing my confusion, he responded, “Com’ on, Uncle Joe, please gimme a dime!” With a look that could break the heart of Scrooge he added, “it’s not for me, if’s for some food for my sister.”
What I didn’t know was that everybody was “Uncle Joe.” Or Aunt Mary, if a female. The equivalent of “buddy,” or “mister.” He didn’t know me from Adam’s housecat – I was simply a mark for the little vagabond. But, thinking he knew me, I gave him a buck.
If I could’ve captured that look on his face at that moment, I’d have given $100! Surprise, shock, incredulity. Then he ran, ran hard. Probably thought I’d made a mistake and would try to get it back from him. So he ran. Twenty-three years later, his face haunts me. He’d asked for a dime. I’d upped the ante and given a buck. A tenfold increase. Not a bad exchange. Until . . . The likelihood of Chico being alive today is somewhere between slim and none. It’s not uncommon for street children to be killed like stray dogs in the big cities of Brazil; to be turned into sex slaves whose little lives are snuffed out from disease, abuse and drugs long before they reach the end of their teen years; to simply disappear from the face of the earth – they have no advocate.
We blithely build our million dollar temples, spend our money on ourselves while making a pretense that it is for the “work of the Lord,” congratulate ourselves on our faithfulness.
But Chico dies. Slowly, sadly unfairly.
“Hey! Uncle Joe! Gimme a dime!”
Chico, if I could do it all over again, this ”mark” would offer you more than a buck. Maybe you’ll be the catalyst that will offer a future to other “Chicos.”
Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed.
Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.
–Isaiah 1:17