August 20, 2003

opinion

PANHANDLERS ARE AS much a fixture in San Francisco as hapless drivers looking for a parking space, and they can turn a walk down the street into a gauntlet of "must avoid eye contact."

San Franciscans have seen them all: the Vietnam vet with AIDS, the stranded drifter, the people holding "Why lie? It's for beer" signs, and the runaway kids down on Haight Street. Like little tollbooths of guilt and compassion, their crumpled paper cups have for years made people dig in their pockets – and complain about constant harassment.

Now, as Calcutta by the Bay gears up for a mayoral election, the heat is on for the spare-any-changers: new initiatives have been launched to curb those asking for cash in the city. The push is touted by signs on Muni buses and Yellow Cabs alerting people to what their alms mean to panhandlers: written on a beggar's outstretched cup are the words "Your change keeps me on the street" and "A dollar will keep me from getting real help."

The unnamed source of this message is the Hotel Council of San Francisco, a downtown business lobby representing 55 hotels in the city. Its members view panhandling as an epidemic that hurts San Francisco's tourism industry, scaring away visitors and conventions.

Another champion of tough love is supervisor and mayoral candidate Gavin Newsom, who is promoting an anti-panhandling initiative on the November ballot. It would rewrite existing codes against asking for money at ATMs, ban "aggressive panhandling" (physical contact, verbal threats, and following people), and add new time and place restrictions, such as no begging on median strips, in parking lots, and near bus stops and schools. Most of all, Newsom claims, the measure will end the enabling of drug use and ultimately benefit the panhandler.

However, much like his signature measure Care not Cash, Newsom's assault on panhandlers is based on faulty assumptions. While handouts can make it easier to buy drugs, addicts will get their fixes with or without panhandled cash – perhaps through robbery or turning a trick. Sandi Andrews, a case manager at the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic, confirms: "Drug users will do whatever is necessary to survive. They don't quit just because they run out of money. Even if they do seek help, treatment is very limited." So, even a total ban on panhandling would hardly affect drug use and deaths in San Francisco.

A closer look at the Hotel Council's Web site (www.wewantchange.com) raises further skepticism. The fact page duly notes that only "a small percentage of homeless people panhandle." The authors then ask, "What happens to your handout on the street?" (answer: substance abuse), only to list drug use statistics about homeless people to make a case against panhandlers. Not surprisingly, the site's legal disclaimer sounds somewhat ominous: "We cannot warrant that the information contained on this Web site is accurate or complete."

The fact is, nobody knows how many panhandlers are spending their money on drugs. Homeless people and panhandlers are commonly lumped together as a bunch of semicriminal addicts – a simplification that made Care Not Cash a success with voters. In the run-up to the ballot last November, the San Francisco Chronicle was at pains to depict welfare recipients exclusively as junkies and freeloaders. Only after the measure was thrown out in court did the paper suddenly find recipients spending their money on rent and food.

Even Trent Rhorer, director of the Department of Human Services (and coauthor of Care not Cash), disapproves of how Newsom's panhandling initiative cloaks politics with concern for drug users. "I mean, call a spade a spade," Rhorer told San Francisco Magazine. "If you want to make the streets cleaner for business and tourists, do it. But don't bill it as compassion."