So I've been spending some time at a local soup kitchen that's affiliated with the Catholic Worker Movement. I was able to spend some time taking with one of the homeless folks there., His name was Doug his pal was Verne. Doug is fifty years old, has a prominent belly, has smatterings of facial hair, looks like he's from the streets, but is still rather respectably dressed. Doug wanted to know where I was from. I told him. He asked me, really, where I was from, I told him again. This went on for a bit, and he gets a little exasperated and says he's just trying to make conversation. I realize that he's trying to ask me what ethnicity I am. Fine. I'm Chinese (But I was born in America).
Doug is a jack of all trades sort of fellow. He makes jewelry, works as chef, does whatever he needs to do to get by. He shows me his prized masterpiece which is a work in progress. He has it around his neck. He takes it out and, lo and behold, it's a large gold plated dollar sign. I almost laugh at the absurdity, even though, when I think about, it's not that absurd.
He asks me what I think about all these people who come to this place. I give a safe politically correct answer. He tells me that he thinks that most of these people are lowlifes who come here because they know they can get a free meal and then go spend their money getting drugs.. This makes me think about all of us who are better off financially who use our money, time, whatever, because we can or even just the rich suburban kids who buy drugs because they are bored and want a thrill. I want to tell him that these people he is talking about are really not so different than the volunteers who are serving them lunch. Sometimes the similarities are too striking. It is hard not to be cynical.
One of the elderly volunteers here had a seizure after I left last Saturday. He is in the hospital and has supposedly had a pacemaker placed in. His name is Jim. This soup kitchen has become a second career. The people that eat here know him by name. All of this makes me think about doctors: we learn about seizures and other people suffer them.
Doug tells me how he met Verne. Doug had just got out of prison and was wandering the streets when he runs into Verne. Verne says, "come with me, you're going to be my bro" and that was that. They've been brothers ever since. Brothers are hard to find these days, let alone good friends.
Doug asks me for cash. I don't have any. He asks for a check, credit card, anything. I say i'll bring him something next time. Doug says, "See how I just played you? I can do the same thing to people out in the park and make a good amount of money every day." When I hear this, I think about how if this had happened to me years ago, I might have been upset. Instead, I think about how I can't live life always being afraid that I'm being cheated. I think about how people probably give him money because his presence makes them feel bad. He plays of their guilt, and why shouldn't he?
We are sitting in the living room having this conversation. There is a upright piano in the room against the wall separating the eating area from the rest of the house. It is old but in tune. I think about how i haven't played piano much since getting to Urbana Champaign. Maybe I finally a good reason to start again.
Whenever I leave the soup kitchen, I have a particular smell. I think it's bleach. This usually would bother me but after spending hours in the anatomy lab this week, I don't care so much.
It is 9:37 now, I should get back to work, or at least check the laundry to see if it's done. Tomorrow is a new week. Sometime during this week I need to cut my hair. I did a pretty good job on my last one. I hope you are all well. I miss you all, and if I haven't gotten around to sending you an update yet, I'm glad that we know each othe well enough that I won't feel like we've lost touch.
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