[Let me be clear: this was not my idea, my project, my brainchild. A guy named Mike thought of it and another guy named Mike joined him and this is their baby. Not mine.]
I saw a group on Meet Up a few months ago describing the project and it started my wheels turning. I thought, "There's not that many homeless uptown! I've been there a lot and haven't seen many panhandlers or street people." So over the subsequent weeks, I started really looking through open eyes when I went uptown for business or otherwise. During business hours, hardly anything. A panhandler here and there that would be quickly shooed away by the dozens of security guards protecting our powerhouses of wealth. After hours I saw more...slowly coming forward from alleys and parking garages, picking through the garbage of the day...but police and security were still vigilant in keeping these people shushed and hidden away from the main streets.
So I decided to go, mainly to satisfy my curiosity. I still didn't think there were that many homeless in Charlotte.
And I was shocked. And sickened. And depressed.
And absolutely none of that matters.
It does not matter one tiny bit how sad I was about the homeless. It does not matter how full of despair it made me. It does not matter how I feel tucked in my queen-sized bed at night, under my white down comforter, it does not matter how bad I hurt. It is not about me.
I kept going and I didn't know why. I couldn't afford the supplies we needed so I asked others, although given the history of this group, they would have come up with supplies with or without me or my family or my church. They've been doing this for four years. But I am here and I was led to be here and so here we are.
But still...part of it makes me uncomfortable. Not the people we serve- not at all. It bothers me to be wearing this white skin and walking this walk and looking for all the world like a damn charity-tourist. Walking the line of being white and having the heart to serve is a constant struggle, and yes, I'm well aware of how whiny and spoiled that sounds- it exactly proves my point.
My oldest son is nine. This was his first time he walked with us. My youngest son has had the heart of a servant and a giver since he could walk...he would give other children his toys, sharing was not a problem, and he's had that genuine goodness of spirit his entire life- it springs forth from him organically. My daughter has a good heart but takes some prompting, as most children do. My oldest son has been pampered and coddled by extended family since his father died and as a result has become the picture of narcissistic entitlement. Stamp him with the White Boy stamp. And I fight it every single day; to make him understand that doing good deeds only where the eyes of the church or your teacher or your grandma can see you...that doesn't even count. Doing good deeds for attention is like spitting on the cross in church.
We had done about 3/4 of our walk yesterday and my oldest son puffs out his chest after handing out a couple of bottles of water and says to me, "I'm doing a real good thing, huh?" and my mind just flashed red for a moment. I bent down so only he could hear me and so he could see my face very clearly as I said, "This. Is. Not. About. You. None of this is about you or how you feel or patting yourself on the back. Do you understand that?" He was shocked and rather speechless so he just nodded.
Was I right? Was I wrong? Who knows...parenting is a daily struggle between determining what's right for now and what's right for the 25 year old man that boy will one day become. Yesterday I chose the grown man. Yes, what he was doing was a good thing...he was doing it because he was taken there and told to hand out these bottles of water. This was not something he devised organically as an act of good will that burst forth from his heart. And these people are not tools for him to make himself feel good about himself.
I am deeply uncomfortable when I talk about this project in front of others. I am deeply uncomfortable to be put as a "point of contact" for an event I did not create, did not devise, that did not spring forth from my heart, that I just showed up and was told to hand out these bottles of water. And yet when I was asked what we needed and I spoke it, the supplies appeared. When I spoke it, more volunteers came to walk, and one of them is a woman whose heart of service is so great she came to participate even after an exhausting battle with cancer.
With cancer.
And this white girl is handing out sandwiches, feeling bad and feeling confused about the greater meaning of it all.
At the end of the day, I'm nothing. I'm no one. I'm a sometimes selfish, overly emo white girl. I have three kids that I struggle to raise, at whom I sometimes yell, and who I fear daily I'm screwing up beyond repair. I have been homeless. I have been utterly alone with no one. I have faced down despair and stood on the brink with a straight razor and tears to fill my old bathtub. I do not help because I want attention- I do not...it's painfully awkward. If there were a way to ask for supplies anonymously, I would. I do not help because I think I can provide these people with something special- I can't. They can get a sandwich from anyone. I help because I can't not help. I can't walk past someone and not share with them what I have or what I can provide. And if I can do nothing else, I will embed this in my children. All of them. Even the White Boy.
Please go to www.doingmypart.com for more information on Mike's project for average people to make a difference.
No comments:
Post a Comment