Jul 2014
There we were.
A dozen and a half middle-class white kids from Chelsea, Michigan
Who had convinced our parents to pay $175 to let us go down to Chicago and help homeless people in the name of God.
There we were.
Including the tall, gangly kid who had never been out Michigan and who held
His backpack in front of him as if he
Thought it might make a good weapon,
The ****** girl who was only there because her mom ran the church office,
And me, there because I honestly had nothing better to do over spring break
And I thought it might look good on a college application someday.
The soup kitchen was a place I would have never eaten uin a million years.
The ceilings were low, too low, oppressing the already oppressed with their
Chip board panels and bright, sterile lighting,
Table of sticky Formica that had clearly seen better days
Surrounded by hard, plastic mismatched chairs, and
The food was no better,
Number 10 cans of dreariness and shame and just-one-more-day-til-I-can-get-a-job.
We were instructed to sit at a table where we didn't know anybody.
The gangly boy held his backpack on his lap as he sat with a group of grey-haired old men reminiscing about having
A great life, a good life, a better life, a not-terrible life, a life at all.
****** girl sat at a table with a collection of ***** children, and was instantaneously on her phone.
And I went to a table with a middle-aged black woman with a little boy.
I sat down.
The plastic chair dug into the backs of my thighs and the lighting units hummed and flickered like a
Hoard of discontented bees.
The woman looked at me, then at the bowl of soup, grey-brown with un-identified meat.
She was overweight, and she smelled. I almost choked on the
Scent of body odor and oil, cigarettes, alcohol, city streets, homelessness, despair.
She looked at me again.
My name is Josie Gonzalez.
I know that sounds Mexican but I ain't no Hispanic, she said.
She went back to eating.
Silence.
Uncomfortable, awkward.
Silence.
I looked at her little boy, joyous, handsome, and
She looked too,
And I have never seen a person change as much as she did when she looked at her little boy
From a sad, lonely, homeless woman she became the proudest mother in the whole world.
She was the most beautiful person I've ever seen.
Her eyes lit up and I saw that they were the
Prettiest chocolate brown.
She smiled,
And far from noticing the stained, yellowed tombstones of her teeth
I saw how wide and honest that smile seemed.
I smiled too, I couldn't help it and suddenly
I felt like I'd known her my entire life.
We are all human. We will at one point all be
Homeless, lost, lovelorn, broken, or confused,
Stranded in a bad place with almost no options.
So be forgiving.
Share a meal, share a hug, share a smile.
Share hope, share love.
Share life.
Here we are.
A dozen and a half middle-class white kids from Chelsea, Michigan
Who had convinced our parents to pay $175 to let us go down to Chicago and help homeless people in the name of God.
There we were.
Including the tall, gangly kid who had never been out Michigan and who held
His backpack in front of him as if he
Thought it might make a good weapon,
The ****** girl who was only there because her mom ran the church office,
And me, there because I honestly had nothing better to do over spring break
And I thought it might look good on a college application someday.
The soup kitchen was a place I would have never eaten uin a million years.
The ceilings were low, too low, oppressing the already oppressed with their
Chip board panels and bright, sterile lighting,
Table of sticky Formica that had clearly seen better days
Surrounded by hard, plastic mismatched chairs, and
The food was no better,
Number 10 cans of dreariness and shame and just-one-more-day-til-I-can-get-a-job.
We were instructed to sit at a table where we didn't know anybody.
The gangly boy held his backpack on his lap as he sat with a group of grey-haired old men reminiscing about having
A great life, a good life, a better life, a not-terrible life, a life at all.
****** girl sat at a table with a collection of ***** children, and was instantaneously on her phone.
And I went to a table with a middle-aged black woman with a little boy.
I sat down.
The plastic chair dug into the backs of my thighs and the lighting units hummed and flickered like a
Hoard of discontented bees.
The woman looked at me, then at the bowl of soup, grey-brown with un-identified meat.
She was overweight, and she smelled. I almost choked on the
Scent of body odor and oil, cigarettes, alcohol, city streets, homelessness, despair.
She looked at me again.
My name is Josie Gonzalez.
I know that sounds Mexican but I ain't no Hispanic, she said.
She went back to eating.
Silence.
Uncomfortable, awkward.
Silence.
I looked at her little boy, joyous, handsome, and
She looked too,
And I have never seen a person change as much as she did when she looked at her little boy
From a sad, lonely, homeless woman she became the proudest mother in the whole world.
She was the most beautiful person I've ever seen.
Her eyes lit up and I saw that they were the
Prettiest chocolate brown.
She smiled,
And far from noticing the stained, yellowed tombstones of her teeth
I saw how wide and honest that smile seemed.
I smiled too, I couldn't help it and suddenly
I felt like I'd known her my entire life.
We are all human. We will at one point all be
Homeless, lost, lovelorn, broken, or confused,
Stranded in a bad place with almost no options.
So be forgiving.
Share a meal, share a hug, share a smile.
Share hope, share love.
Share life.
Here we are.
