Chapter 6: Ending or BeginningA Chapter by ShannonI scan the questions, looking for the one that suits me best. I need to write an essay to get accepted into a program at university that will let me start my real work, helping people. When I see the question, I know: Who, excluding your family, has had the most influence on how you view those who are marginalized by society? It’s been nearly a decade since I first volunteered there and probably 6 years since the last time I set foot inside. Regardless, my response to this question resides there, in my experiences at Meals Shared. ***** I had volunteered for a year and a half after that first Christmas party, although towards the end, my shifts became increasingly sporadic. After Bev left, a series of directors took her place. My young self was exposed to my first up close look at hypocrisy and judgement. One director decided the kitchen was ‘too dependant’ on Leonard and took over cooking, shouting at everyone. Fine option volunteers rarely finished their time at Meals Shared. I hope they found new placements and didn’t just give up, which would have eventually landed them in jail. Both Edgar and Leonard started coming less frequently. Another reserved the parking spot closest to the staff door for her car, so it ‘wouldn’t get vandalized’ even though that was never a problem, then chastised volunteers for ‘hanging around’ too close to it during breaks, at the picnic table we had always used. The last one thought that volunteers, especially those who were on fine option, shouldn’t eat. ‘Cost too much money’ and they shouldn’t earn time for eating. He cancelled Santa’s visit. Too many people were coming who ‘didn’t need food.’ Near the end of grade 10, I decided not to come back the following school year. How am I going to tell Leonard and Edgar, I thought to myself over and over. We were busy the day that became my last and had fewer volunteers all the time. Leonard was in the kitchen; he and his dwindling crew had made pasta and sauce. As he made his way to a table, I could see the pain in his stiff walk. I was sopping up a spilled drink and was relieved to see one of the kitchen volunteers had grabbed an extra plate of food to put in front of Leonard. I was the only one working out front, and was carrying my fourth full bus tub in a row into the kitchen, having fallen behind while making more coffee, when the most recent director called: “Sarah, grab me a cup of coffee,” while holding up his empty cup towards me. I looked at him, sitting by the serving station on a stool, making marks on a page, counting the patrons served. He had four categories: adults, children, volunteers and fine option. Seeing him sitting there, having not helped prepare, serve or clean up the meal being served that day, knowing that his purpose in counting was to divide people into groups: those who need food, those who deserve food and those who are neither, was the final push I needed. “I’m busy,” I told him over my shoulder, wiping my wet forehead with the sleeve of my shirt, before carrying the last full bin into the kitchen. I took my place in the food line (needing and deserving or not), stared past the director for my entire wait, got my food and went to sit with Leonard, leaving my post stocked and neat, but untended. “Today’s my last day,” I told Leonard. I was still fuming about the director, but saying those words and seeing the look on Leonard’s face, dampened that fire. “It’s probably time,” he answered. He looked sad, and maybe a bit angry, with his brows down and his mouth turned down as well. Meals Shared was turning into one of the places he had warned me about, treating people without respect. “Will you tell Edgar for me?” I asked him. “Sure will.” Tears threatened to fall, so I took my plate to the bus tubs, scraped most of my supper into the trash and resumed my position, finishing service and cleaning up for the next day, like usual. Leonard walked out with me that day, his leg worse than I had ever seen, leaning on his cane with each step. He stopped just before we parted ways, he to get in his beat-up truck, me heading to my bus stop. “You did good here, Red.” Leonard declared. With a period on the end. His final word, no room for questions. He was smiling, but his eyes were shiny, like they were when Rob came to tell us he finished his commercial cooking course and had a job at the hospital. It was not the last time I saw Leonard, but I thought it might be, so I threw my arms around him and gave him a hug. Then turned and ran to my bus stop, so he wouldn’t see me cry. ***** The last time I saw Leonard was about two years later, after my grade 12 year, as I was getting ready to head off to university, planning a career in the sciences, years before I realized that was not my path. My mom had handed me the classified section of the newspaper and asked “Is that your Meals Shared Edgar?” I looked down at the page. An obituary. Edgar Pearson, a good friend of Santa Claus, passed away after a battle with a long-term illness. He was survived by a daughter and granddaughter. Any donations in his memory could be made to Meals Shared. Taking my tip money from the weekend, I made the surprisingly short drive to Meals Shared. Parking in the gravel lot, I considered my next step. It wouldn’t be open for another hour at least, so the patron door would be locked. As I approached the staff door, worried I wouldn’t know anyone after more than two years, a square figure limped over to sit on an old metal lawn chair by the staff door and studiously lit a cigarette. I wondered if Leonard would remember me or if it had been too long and I had changed too much. I needn’t have worried, a smile instantly tugged at his mouth and his ever-expressive eyebrows. “Hey, Red,” he greeted, as he carefully put out the remainder of the newly lit cigarette on the old coffee can and returned the unsmoked portion to the package in his chest pocket. “Let’s get a coffee, inside. Tea’s on, too” “It’s coffee now,” I tell him. “I’ll get you one. Cream, still?” “Yeah, some things don’t change.” His quieter voice made me look at him again. He looked older, head lower, shoulders more slumped, as though he was carrying more weight. His eyes were far off, thinking of all the things that do change, maybe. As we entered the building, it was clear all the volunteers were taking a break, quietly talking. I recognized a few faces, including Bev, the first director. And one of the volunteers, who reminded me that her name is Denise. She greeted Leonard, pulled out chair for him. His face changed, some of the weight lifted. She directed others to push over and make room for me to pull up a chair beside Leonard, as the conversation resumed. A conversation about our friend Edgar. Laments for his loss turned to storytelling, followed by laughter. The plaid shirts, the prized beard, the jack of all trades work history, the proud dad and even prouder grandfather were all eulogized around a big round table, in a run-down place, in a bad part of town, by an unlikely group of friends, acquaintances and strangers. Denise spoke up, voice tinged with awe, “Didn’t he kick Taz out once?” Leonard laughed heartily: “That man was making moves on Sarah here; he’s lucky he made it out in one piece!” The conversation deepened, as one man, wearing a black hat, the “no colours” rule still applicable, asked, “Did alcohol kill him?” Leonard spoke: “Edgar had the kind of alcoholism that can sneak up on a guy. Work hard, drink hard. Didn’t cause him too many problems. Could slow down mostly when he needed to. Didn’t start drinking all his money until he and his wife split. By the time he knew he had a problem, it’d already got his liver. Think that’s what got him in the end.” ***** So now I have five hundred words to tell some unknown person reading an essay what I learned at Meals Shared. How it, along with Leonard, Edgar and many others, shaped me. How I learned to think and see the world and those in it. * I reflect on the talkative barely teen from the private school, who was bursting with energy and Leonard’s choice to teach her all jobs are important, while not subjecting patrons to her well-meaning enthusiasm, until he could be sure whether the desire to help came from pity or somewhere else. How he listened to her and found a spark of something to nurture and fuel. I learned to listen, look deeper and find the humanity buried behind behaviour. I think about the lessons in dignity and kindness, both in word and in action. Treating each patron, volunteer, visitor and donor with respect and expecting the same in return. Accepting where people are at, whether they are a drunk patron, a young woman who ends up in fine option repeatedly or a naive volunteer, with too many questions. I learned to celebrate all successes and joys, large and small. I felt community and its importance in a place I never expected to find it . Each person was invited to eat, to join the conversation, to meet Santa, to use their skills and contribute their ideas. Leonard, Edgar and Bev saw all volunteers and patrons as equal. I learned that belonging is a basic human need, to reval that of food. I consider what it meant for Edgar to stand up to Taz so firmly and what he might have been protecting me from, using adult eyes; the rearranging of the bus tub tables so I never got trapped again and Edgar’s proud smile the first time I told a patron to back up a few steps. I learned that helping does not have to compromise one’s safety. I discovered that a man I admired, trusted and believed in had not always been the man I knew and that is was possible to change, to grow, to become something different. That people are never just one thing; a barrier they are facing does not define them as a human being. I learned that every person has a story; it’s a privilege when someone shares a bit of theirs with you. I saw that addictions, mental illness and poverty are complex; they look different in each person’s life. That we can accept people where they are at, even if we don’t agree with their choices. That one alcoholic may lose his family to his addiction, while another may be able to manage his well enough every year to make his family proud as Santa. I learned the goals of helping can never be in the hands of those helping. I understand now that even two pillars, like Edgar and Leonard, cannot keep hypocrisy at bay and that respect and dignity can be undermined by those who have privilege with a few small gestures, words or actions. Or even inaction. I learned helping should not compromise one’s values or the value of any human being. But we each have a role to play and sometimes, we need to make the changes where we can. * A tear escapes my eye, bringing me back to the task at hand. Five hundred words will not do justice to that place, that time, those people or what they taught me. For five hundred words, they cannot have that story. I’ll choose another question to convince admissions I belong in their program and save Meals Shared for somewhere I can honour them. © 2017 ShannonAuthor's Note
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Added on November 26, 2016Last Updated on March 29, 2017 Author
ShannonCanadaAboutI like to explore the world through the human experience, at once both varied and singular. Reading, writing and meeting people makes one's world larger. I enjoy connecting with people, learning.. more..Writing
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