PAIN

The rich associate poverty with a particular form of pain called hunger...I assert that poor people are not necessarily hungry. That is why in this ugly little list of poverty-phenomena I omit hunger for the more general if awkward term pain.

—page 139, Poor People by William T. Vollmann

The child and I went and helped out this evening at our local "soup kitchen." The group from my church that served provided tacos with all of the fixin's; fresh fruit in the form of bananas, apples, and oranges; poppyseed muffins; milk; and juice. We served about fifty of the area's homeless and/or hungry.

The reason we did this was two-fold. First, I want to expose the child to all kinds of people and all kinds of experiences. Second, I felt compelled to help. All too often my vision is directed inward. And, I used to go down and help with this meal program in the past and really enjoyed being around the cast of characters that comes to eat.

When we arrived, the woman in charge of the program told me that the child could not help because she was too young. That was not going to stop us, however. I had informed the child that she would be able to help and I made sure that it did indeed happen. I was assigned to the end of the line pouring milk and juice. I then placed the child in charge of handing me cups to fill. The child also insisted on holding the bottoms of the gallon containers as I poured. The child was content and happy with her simple tasks.

Once the woman in charge saw that the child was not "in the way" or handling food, she realized that there were things that she could do. So, next thing I know, the child and I are walking amongst the tables where people are eating, handing out malt chocolate Easter eggs. The child would say, "Would you like some candy?" Her more-than-usual shyness and toddler smile broke the ice with most of the people, and even if they declined the candy they shook her hand or said "No, thank you," to which the child replied, "Yourwelcome," as though it were one word.

When everyone who came to eat was having second helpings, our crew began to eat. They all stood behind the serving tables with their tacos. The child and I decided to go sit with some of the people we had served, partly in order that the child could sit in a chair, and partly for me to step out of my introverted comfort-zone.

We sat across from self-proclaimed "Crazy" Bob. We awkwardly carried on small talk about the day, the weather, and the child, until he made brief mention of his work. I asked him what he did for a living. He works as a receiver in a warehouse. Once he started talking about his job, his face began to glow with the obvious pride he takes in his work. I was able to share my past work experience as a receiving manager, and "Crazy" Bob and I talked for ten or fifteen minutes about work and life while we ate. After we were both done—and we were the last two eating, me due to general slowness in eating, he because he was on his third helping because he "needed the calories for his work, since this would probably be his only meal until dinner tomorrow"—we shook hands, said goodbye to one another, and went our separate ways.

His hands, like most of those that the child and I gave milk and juice and candy to, were colored with dirt and weathered with work and exposure to the elements. They were hands that tell a story. Hands that tell a story of pain, but also of pride. Hands that tell a story of drug or alcohol abuse, but also of a willingness to keep going forward. Hands that would reach out and shake the hands of a stranger, even if it was me.