Food Bank

(Those of you who don't like long posts should skip this one.)

Roughly 75 of us showed up at the food bank last night, some with children in tow, so maybe there were 85 of us squeezed into a room big enough for 40, at most. We ranged in age from an infant only a few months old to an old woman in her 80s. A few of the people were migrant workers, very few. Most of us were Caucasian. Most of us were unemployed, or underemployed. A few of us smelled like we had just crawled out of a vat of cheap whiskey. (The rest of us tried not to notice, or we stepped outside to escape the odors – and the noise.) No matter our differences, we all were there because we needed food, because we couldn’t supply that for ourselves, because we all were hungry.

A couple of times, I thought of leaving because I was ashamed to be there. After all, I have a job. Yes, it is part-time and does not provide all the income I need – not all I want, mind you, just what I need to survive. But, I have a job. I think one-third of us in the room have jobs, but those jobs aren't providing what we need to adequately feed ourselves and our families. I also have a home. It is falling apart faster than I can repair it, and I can’t heat it adequately, but I’m not living in shelters, or worse (and like a few people in the room), trying to survive out on the streets. How could I sit there, waiting for my number to be called to fill a shopping cart, when so many others sitting around me have it so much worse? I felt like a whiny-ass fraud. But I stayed. I needed the food the church was giving out more than I needed my dignity at that point.

The first time I went to the food bank, I arrived in time for The Sermon. I listened to the fellowship pastor talk about Papa God’s love for all his children and Big Brother Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice so that we could beat death. All around me, people sat with downcast eyes, looks of shame or embarrassment on their faces. One man twisted his cap in his hands, as if trying to wring Poverty’s neck, anything to make the woman stop talking about how we were sinners and if we turned to Papa God and our Big Brother Jesus everything would be forgiven and we would see the Kingdom of Heaven. What does that have to do with the immediate need of finding something to eat? Does that mean that if we weren't sinners we wouldn't be at the food bank, hat in hand, so to speak, asking to be fed? If I'd had a cap, I'd have been wringing it to pieces, too.

After I registered for the food bank, I was taken to a back room to be interviewed about my employment status, my income, my bills each month, how many were in my family, and whether I was a Christian. I said no, I am a Quaker. Thank heavens, the Pastor Woman thought I was joking and laughed. I told my daughter later that had I known I would be asked about my relationship with BBJ in order to be allowed to receive food, I would have worn saffron robes and danced the Krishna for Pastor Woman when she got to that part of the process. (No offense to any religious group, belief or creed intended.)

Last night was my second visit to the food bank, and I got there about half an hour after the doors opened, to avoid The Sermon. I arrived late enough to be near the end of the line, and the need was so great this week and there were more families with young children needing help, that the shelves were nearing empty by the time my number was called. That’s the trade-off, I guess. But, the good thing is that the young families, who have many mouths to feed, were served well, as it should be.

Still, there was enough for all of us. Thank you, Papa God, for the generosity and compassion of the people in this church.

Now, let’s talk about this economy, PG. What can You do to fix this mess? And could you visit a little hard times on your child, Newt Gingrich? I think he could do with some compassion and a whole helluva lot of humility.