A Knight Of The Word

The smile widened. “You sound a tad disappointed. Does this mean you will be forced to write something good about us?”


Wren pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Looks that way. Damned disappointing to have it end like this. When you’re an investigative reporter, you like to fond something to investigate. But you can’t win them all.”

Simon Lawrence chuckled. “I’ve found that to be true.”

“Not lately, I’ll wager.” Wren cocked an eyebrow expectantly. “Lately, you’ve been winning them all. And you’re about to win another.”

The Wiz looked unexpectedly sceptical. “The shelter? Oh, that’s a victory all right. It counts for something. But I wonder sometimes what it is that I’m winning. Like that general, I keep thinking I’m winning battles, but losing the war.”

Wren shrugged. “Wars are won one battle at a time.”

Simon Lawrence hunched forward, his dark eyes intense. The distracted look was gone. “Sometimes. But some wars can’t be won. Ever. What if mine against homelessness is one?”

“You don’t believe that.”

The Wiz nodded. “You’re right, I don’t. But some do, and they have cogent arguments to support their position. A political scientist named Banfield posited back in the early seventies that the poor are split into two groups. One is disadvantaged simply because it lacks money. Give them a jump start and their middle-class values and work ethic will pull them through. But the second group will fail no matter how much money you give them because they possess a radically present-oriented outlook on life that attaches no value to work, sacrifice, self-improvement, or service. If that’s so, if Banfield was right, then the war effort is doomed. The problem of homelessness will never be solved.”

Wren frowned. “But your work is with women and children who have been disenfranchised through circumstances not of their own making. It’s not the same thing, is it?”

“You can’t compartmentalise the problem so easily, Andrew, There aren’t any conditions of homelessness specifically attributable to particular groups that would allow us to apply different solutions. It doesn’t work like that. Everything is connected. Domestic violence, failed marriages, teen pregnancy, poverty, and lack of education are all a part of the mix. They all contribute, and ultimately you can’t salve one problem without solving them all. We fight small battles on different fronts, but the war is huge. It sprawls all over the place.”

He leaned back again. “We treat homelessness on a case by case basis, trying to help the disadvantaged get back on their feet, to reclaim their lives, to begin anew. But you have to wonder sometimes how much good we are really doing. We shore up people in need, and that’s good. But how much of what we do is actually solving the problem?”

Wren shrugged. “Maybe that’s best left to somebody else.”

Simon Lawrence chuckled. “Who? The government? The church? The general population? Do you see anyone out there addressing the specific causes of homelessness or domestic violence or failed marriages or teen pregnancy in any meaningful way? There are efforts being made to educate people, but the problem does way beyond that. It has to do with the way we live, with our values and our ethics. And that’s exactly what Banfield wrote decades ago when he warned us that poverty is a condition that, to a large extent at least, we cannot alleviate.”

They stared at each other across the little table, the din of the roam around them closing in on the momentary silence, filling up the space like water poured in a glass. Wren was struck suddenly by the similarity of their passion for their work. What they did was so different, yet the strength of their commitment and belief was much the same.

“I’m sounding pessimistic again,” the Wiz said, making a dismissive gesture. “You have to ignore me when I’m like this. You have to pretend that it’s someone else talking.”

Wren drained the last of his drink and sat back. “Tell me something about yourself, Simon,” he asked the other man suddenly.

Simon Lawrence seemed caught off guard. “What?”

“Tell me something about yourself I came out here for a story, and the story is supposed to be about you. So tell me something about yourself that you haven’t told anyone else. Give me something interesting to write about.” He paused. “Tell me about your childhood.”