Whenever I think the denizens of Cambridge, students included, are starting to show some real signs of intelligence, that common sense and reason are back in vogue, I comfort myself with one thought:

"She's still out there."

"She," of course, being that fixture on the Harvard Square scene, perched upon her milk crates next to Yenching, asking day after day--perhaps 1,000 times daily--for a bit of your spare change.

Seniors are well familiar with this living landmark. First-years, in their naivet, are most likely under the impression that she is just another beggar, one of the colorful characters that defines the distinctive cityscape that so attracted them to Harvard in the first place. Little do they realize that she will soon become as constant a presence in their lives as map-wielding tourists in the Yard and soggy French fries in the dining hall. As they progress throughout their years at Harvard, choosing concentrations, moving into Houses, running for elections, writing theses and donning the cap and gown, she will continue to beg and beg, mooching her way through life.

Some may ask why I'm targeting this woman. Why turn my focus to her? Doesn't she have any privacy? Why don't I just pick on Pat Buchanan, Bob Barr or some other public figure worthy of our real disdain?

First, anyone who spends as much time as she does out on the sidewalk certainly qualifies as "public" in my book. Second, the way she is treated by daily pedestrians says a lot about our treatment of the homeless in general and is worthy of an examination. And lastly, she deserves it.

Now, I realize that a lot of people like this woman. Of course, a lot of people like pro wrestling, too, but that doesn't mean it makes any more sense. And speaking of not making sense: an obese beggar? Am I missing something here? It is a combination as foreign as a keg-standing priest or a thought-provoking Core section. Perhaps, however, the ample frame partly explains her choice of occupancy in front of the Porcellian Club. Shacking up before any other similar locale--the Fox, the Owl, the Fly--would imply an agility and spryness far too incongruous for our portly panhandler.

Girth aside, lest you think I am some inhumane, round-up-the-homeless-and-put-'em-in-a-hole reactionary, let me point out that I am not at all averse to giving spare change to the homeless. Although there are times I wish they wouldn't resort to such maddening gestures like opening the door for me and expecting a "reward" for their efforts--as if my two arms had suddenly become nonfunctional and I would otherwise be unable to enter 7-Eleven to buy a box of Pop Tarts--the truth is that some people are just plain down on their luck, whether it's due to an incapacity, the effects of discrimination or just a rotten turn of recent events. And it is to these individuals that I have gladly and understandably forked over some dough, some "getting-by" money, some transitional cash.