What's for Breakfast?

Note: Names and other identifiers have been changed

Once the door is open, a line of people come piling in, as though they have been standing out there all night. Who knows, some of them may have been. All the food is laid out, and my fellow volunteers and I are ready for the long day ahead. We have already been here a while, but now the coffee urns are filled and the hard boiled eggs are out. These are the essentials. Bagels and cereal are lined in rows across the long food table. We serve breakfast buffet-style in the basement of an old church.

There are a number of tables set up in rows where people gather. The walls are plastered with inspirational quotes, food stamp information, and lists of local services and AA meetings. The people who created this space somehow turned a dark, cold church basement into a place that was relatively cool in the summer, and warm in the winter, even when resources in this run-down mill town are difficult to come by. That is what so many people here.

Just down the street, a few houses up, is where those two boys were shot not too long ago. A few buildings on the block are abandoned and some buildings were burnt down by arson last year. These are tough times, and the people in this neighborhood are really feeling the heat.

A tall man dressed in a large winter coat catches my eye. He has not been to the center for a while, but I remember him. I know him because he is always wearing that big blue jacket, even now when it is the middle of July, and the temperature is up in the 80s. “Good Morning, Robert!” I call from across the room. “How are you today?” I quickly regret the simple question I had just asked him, because I knew what may be coming next. “Well…” he replies slowly, “I am having problems with my bowels.” I knew what I had gotten myself into; I was just being polite. “Will you pray for me that my bowels will get better?” “Yes Robert, I am sorry to hear that.” I reply with a smile. I quickly change the subject. “Come on in and get something to eat.”

Now that the chaos seems to have subsided for a moment, and everyone is sitting down with their breakfast, I look around at all the faces for others that I recognize. Zoe and Sarah are sitting at a table consuming large quantities of the coveted hard boiled eggs. They had a commitment ceremony in this room a week ago. Zoe’s attire bears a strong resemblance to that of a teenage boy, twenty years her junior. She wears a baseball cap backwards on her shaved head. Her jeans are so low, that she waddles to the breakfast table and her boxer shorts hang out under her baggy shirt. Her partner Sarah is completely the opposite. She wears girly tops that are two sizes too tight.

Carol is sitting by herself in the corner. She is also dressed inappropriately for the season. As she drinks her coffee, she is speaking loudly to the crowd, even though clearly nobody is listening. “I am a 50 year old woman” she calls out in her high raspy voice. “I am not having sex” she calls repeatedly. “Reading makes you smart”, “I am not having sex” she laughs. What she is saying is clearly important and makes sense to her, but the rest of us do not understand. Most people do not even try to understand. She is always alone at a table in the corner. She does not like to have people in her space. I have learned that from experience. She is constantly talking even though no one is listening. I occasionally sit down with her. Most people do not have the patience. We keep an eye on her though; she likes to stuff things into her empty purse.

As the morning progresses, crowds seem to move in and out in waves. People come in from all walks of life, particularly in this rough economy. I see a mother and her three small children. I have never seen them before. As they come into the room, her little boy looks up to her with curious eyes and asks “Why are we here Mommy?” I can see the sense of guilt rush across her face. In a weak voice she replies quietly “We are here because we ain’t got no food at home.”

People come in often looking for basic things like toilet paper and laundry detergent. We have a small stash in the back. I will never get over the reactions when I am able to hand someone a role of toilet paper or a bar of soap, and they are so happy they are almost in tears. Other times I come out of the stock room empty-handed, and I feel so helpless I can barely stand it. I have to maintain a positive attitude and a listening ear, no matter how gut-wrenching a story I may be faced with.

As I hand a mother a grocery bag with a weeks worth of diapers for her newborn baby, I see Carol sneaking eggs, sugar packets, and anything she can get her hands on. I have to confront her. The strong scent of urine overwhelms me as I get closer. How can I stop someone who is struggling so much? Why can’t I let people take as much as they need?

“Excuse me Carol,” I say softly, “The food is supposed to stay here.” She stares down her nose at me. She is tall and thin. As she looks down in my direction, in a “who are you to tell me what to do” kind of way, she proceeds to take food from the table and stuff it in her bag. Her long face has quickly morphed from laughter to a menacing grin. I ask her if she would like to stay and eat, but she has stopped listening all-together. People can get pretty tough around the edges when they are so hard up. When I ask her one more time to stop taking the food, I tell her it is time for her to leave, and walk with her towards the door. She is now standing in the doorway cackling at me. She clearly has several inches on me, and who knows what kinds of objects she has in that long coat. Just then Walter, a tall middle-aged man who works in the computer room came charging down the hallway towards us. He had clearly heard some commotion. He pushed me aside and forcefully escorted Carol out the door.

I have learned a lot working here. It is hard to maintain a balanced composure when I realize what some of these people have to face. My experience here has often left me with a sense of ethical conflict. I can not always give people what they need. I have learned that there are many ways that people deal with these tough situations. I see people at their lowest points as they lose their housing, can’t feed their families, have lost loved ones, and some who just can’t take it and have committed suicide. This center can be a dark place where it all hangs out, or a joyous place where someone just found a job after living on the street, or had a commitment ceremony in a church basement. It all depends on the day, and what life serves up for breakfast.