Wes
Google
An Open Letter to the Man Who Told Me to Leave
You didn’t ask my name. You didn’t ask my story. You saw me, judged me, and decided I didn’t belong. Something all to familiar to me these days.
I wasn’t causing a disturbance. I wasn’t making a mess—in fact, I had been cleaning up after those who had. Something I tried to explain to you the day prior but you wouldn't listen. I was just trying to stay warm and charge my phone—my only connection to the world, to opportunities, to survival. Yet, you approached with two security guards as though I was hostile, unplugged my chargers, and told me, “This isn’t a homeless shelter. You need to go"
No, it’s not a homeless shelter. But it is a public space, open and unlocked 24/7. And I am a person.
I had done nothing wrong, yet you spoke and acted with such anger and contempt toward me. I didn’t return your sentiment. I quietly gathered my belongs and left the area
Imagine, for a moment, the weight of constant rejection. Imagine every doorway, every bench, every corner you go to only offers a cold shoulder, a dismissive glance, the firm 'you don't belong here.' How do you think that feels? To constantly day after day to be pushed away, unwelcomed, looked at like a threat or nuisance everywhere you go.
Perhaps next time, instead of treating someone like an inconvenience, try seeing them as a human being. Pause for a moment. Ask a question. "What’s your story?" "How can we help?" "Is there a way we can connect you with resources?" Offer kindness and compassion, not anger and frustration. Maybe even rally support from those around you—your coworkers, family, or friends—and do something helpful instead.
Imagine the power of a collective effort. Imagine if the security team, instead of being enforcers of exclusion, became conduits of compassion. Imagine if the public space became a beacon of hope, not a line in the sand.
If you do work for Pan-American Life, then I encourage you to reflect on the values they stand by. Authenticity, transparency, accountability, collaboration, and integrity. Their mission, through PALIG Cares, is “to protect lives, provide peace of mind, and support the people we serve by having a positive impact on their communities.” They claim to believe in working together to solve the biggest challenges facing the region.
I’d like to believe those aren’t just words on a website. I’d like to believe they mean something. Because if they do, then people like me—those facing hard times—shouldn’t just be dismissed. We should be seen.
We are not trash to be removed. We are people, struggling, surviving, and longing for a moment of human connection. We are reflections of a society that sometimes forgets its own heart.
Homelessness isn’t a crime. It’s not a choice anyone hopes for. It’s a reality that can happen faster than you think, to more people than you realize. Not long ago, I sat on the 22nd floor of the building across the street until I abrubtly found myself here.
Let's choose compassion over expulsion. Let's choose understanding over judgment. Let's choose to see the humanity in every soul that seeks shelter, even if just for a moment, in the warmth of a public space.
By The Way, My Name is Wes
Someone You Chose Not to See
