Days Officially Unemployed: 62
Hours Worked: 1.25
I'm in Fresno to visit family and attend Susan Orlean's reading and book signing tomorrow at Fresno State, so I decided to return to Casa Pobre for my first day of volunteering there. I arrive at 8 a.m., and the head cook walks me into the back room, points to a box of green bell peppers, and tells me to cut them "fajita style" and place them in a five gallon bucket, then he walks away. I look at the two people chopping onions, and then around the room, not seeing a chopping block or a five-gallon bucket. I walk back into the main kitchen and tell the cook I have no idea where anything is. He tells me Charles will help me.
Charles gives me a cutting board, hunts down a five-gallon bucket, and selects a suitable knife from the wall magnet. The head cook walks back in, takes up the knife and says, "Cut them fajita style, like this," as he deftly slices the bell pepper into long, thin slices. Having a bad history with knives––a sliced palm, a cut finger––I have a reasonable fear of them. My bell pepper cuts are slow, deliberate, and awkward. The room is cool because the back door remains open to alleviate the pungent onion mist permeating the air. A man complains about the door being open and shuts it. As the onion mist builds, causing a complex chemical reaction that creates sulfuric acid when combined with my eyes' moisture, my eyes water and my cutting task becomes more and more difficult. I'm tired, and as I try to slice, the knife slips off the bell pepper's waxy skin several times and slaps on the cutting board.
Super sensitive to onion mist, my eyes eventually water so much, I can't see at all. I walk out of the back room and into the kitchen to wash my hands and get a paper towel to wipe my eyes. The head cook comes in and says something about the onions, then looks disappointed when he peers into the five-gallon bucket and sees my lack of progress. He grabs the knife and swiftly cuts five bell peppers in half as I tell him about my sensitivity to onions. He hands me back the knife, and I have an overwhelming feeling I wouldn't do too well in a prison environment or high-paced kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, I'm relieved when they ask me to man the breakfast line, which is really the job I came to perform; I want contact with the homeless. As they told me during orientation, you never know who you'll see volunteering in this place, and today I'm surprised to see a girl I used to work with in Fresno State's writing center. She's now attending Fresno City College's kitchen management program, and volunteering is part of her major.
We line up to serve plastic trays with a plain scoop of oatmeal, a fruit cup, and a large muffin. I get the less-than-glorious job of putting the pre-rolled plastic cutlery on the trays, then passing them to a girl who plops a spoonful of oatmeal on them. Just like in San Diego, the trays aren't completely dry, and I want to wipe each one down, but don't have time.
I strike up a conversation with an older volunteer, whom I'll call Jim. He asks me if it's my first time, and, after telling him yes, I eventually talk to him about the facility in San Diego. We discuss the merits of religious institutions, who sometimes make people listen to sermons before they give aid, versus non-profits, who receive government grants and, therefore, can't make those seeking help listen to religious messages as a prerequisite to aid. Jim says the Fresno Rescue Mission falls into the former category, and though they provide temporary housing, they require sermon attendance, which causes many homeless to refuse their services. Jim, who has volunteered for eight years at Casa Pobre, says, "Jesus didn't say, 'I'll show you the light if you jump through hoops'; he just showed it."
I'm disappointed by the lack of contact I have with the homeless today, even though I'm manning the food line. The window where the homeless receive their trays is small, and I'm too busy rolling plastic spoons into napkins to notice the people in the window. There's only one resident who stands outside the window and slaps a cup on the trays before handing them to each homeless person and yelling out, "Two drinks. Two cartons." He's shouting about the small milk cartons, but he sounds like a prison guard or marine drill sergeant.
Anyhow, when I do look at the people passing through the line, I think many of them look young, able-bodied, and capable of work. It's people like this that we tend to pass judgement on, but I don't know their individual stories, so I reserve judgement. As Casa Pobre's newsletter says, "Implicit in the debate about the deserving poor is the expectation that to qualify, they must be utterly victimized, have had no character flaws or foolish behavior that have led to their destitution, and that helping them will somehow get them back on their feet." This isn't always the case, and Casa Pobre's policy is to help both the "deserving" and "undeserving," or more precisely put, to not make fine distinctions between the two.
Last night, a relative of mine made a comment, I think most people would agree with, that if someone is out there on the streets and is able-bodied but on drugs, then they made a poor choice and are undeserving of compassion or help. The Casa Pobre newsletter also sheds light on this situation: "What we know about addiction explains part of the mystery. Once the body has acclimated itself to a substance, it physically craves it to feel normal. The mind follows the body; rationalization sets in, and a young addict is on his way to becoming an old addict."
I love drinking, but I've always been functional and am able to turn it off at will––like now, for Lent (I'm guilty of counting down the days, though). But I understand what the newsletter goes on to describe: "For an alcoholic, sobering up is a terrifying prospect, because sobriety would force him to face the meaninglessness of his life without the mediating effects of beer, wine, or vodka. In his warped way of thinking, sobriety doesn't promise sanity, [sic] but terror and despair."
I want to attribute a paraphrased quotation (I can't locate it right now) to Mother Teresa that speaks to not worrying about the recipients of your charity, that you should give and do these things because they are right. If you're being deceived or taken advantage of, that goes on the soul––if you're a Christian––of the deceiver. As volunteer Jim says, you've got to just keep showing the light.
After feeding the homeless, I help wipe down the counters and sweep up before leaving. When I pull out of the lot, I decide to circle the block, realizing I'm unfamiliar with this area of Fresno. Well, sort of unfamiliar. When Mike, the first one of our high school friends to get a driver's license, asked where we wanted to go, we all decided to head downtown to see what prostitutes looked like. We spotted some and laughed at them.
I drive back toward the freeway, cutting through an area that's slated for redevelopment, but I see only empty storefront after empty storefront and a handful of homeless people. I pass someplace with an old, burned out metal and neon sign, called Happy Liquor Store, and I think, Only ten more days until Palm Sunday, the end of Lent, and a return to "foolish behavior." I can see the light.
No comments:
Post a Comment