Now I'm just pissed off. Excuse me. That should probably say something about righteous anger and the wrath of justice, but I can't be bothered.
Tonight I showed up at Dinner and there was a small serious group of people gathered outside the door of the room. As soon as I got out of the car, N. F. came over, threw his hands in the air and said, "That's it. It's over. This is the last one." Huh? He told me with a shaky voice that the manager had told C. L. that the owner had told him (follow that?) to shut down the room because they couldn't afford the electricity. This was to be the last Dinner in the room. "No more Dinner. No more Breakfast. Period."
I listened for a few minutes, with that same old sinking feeling, hearing N. F.'s voice shake and seeing the disbelief, the injustice in his eyes, the tension in his hands and arms. I went in to find C. L. and she was nearly in tears. Talking too fast and shaky. "What are we going to do with all of our stuff? We'll have to find a place to keep it. What are we going to do? Why did I have to be the one to tell everybody? Why couldn't he tell them himself? Why am I stuck in the middle?"
L. L. was sitting on a chair, arms folded, face grim, shaking her head. She'd walked all the way home after working a long shift waiting tables and now, "How can they do this? How can they say they can't afford it? Don't they know we need this?"
E. came in carrying her casserole for Dinner. She said that the manager, not 10 minutes before breaking the news to C. L., had been asking her how she was and whether she was getting enough to eat. "How can he ask me that, and then do this?"
Everybody was very upset and angry. Disbelieving. How can they do this to us? How can they take this away?
N. F. was stalking the room like the world was about to end and he was going to do something about it, as soon as he could figure out who to strangle.
So S. stood up on a chair and announced to the 35 or so people there that no matter what, we'd make it work. That if we couldn't have Dinner in this room, we'd have it somewhere else. That next week, we'd have a tailgate party, or a barbeque. Whatever. We wouldn't just give up.
The mood lightened at that and the line formed at the table and we started eating.
In all the kerfuffle, I didn't notice R. slip out. Our resident rev. While we were all hyperventilating and filling our upset stomachs, he'd gone looking for the manager.
45 minutes later, he came back in and said, "We're OK for next week."
He'd spent nearly an hour listening to the manager, hearing him out. Mostly, hearing what he wants. He wants us to build a wall to cut the room in half. He wants to keep the Dinner going. He wants the electric bill drastically reduced. He wants me to put my band back together and have concerts again. He wants the 'gospel preached'. He wants, he wants, he wants.
After having vented all of this, he rescinded the order that had supposedly come from the owners and, once again, everything was just peachy.
Leaving everyone feeling deflated and exhausted and bewildered.
I'm deeply grateful for R.'s willingness to step out and for the rapport that he has with the manager that the rest of us just don't have.
And next week we're having a barbeque, weather permitting.
But I'm still angry.
Angry that my friends were so hurt and upset and worried.
Angry that we're entering our third year of Dinners and we're still only tolerated week to week.
Angry that a physical and emotional necessity is being used to manipulate the power structure.
Angry that Dinner is turning into a leash to be yanked occasionally, just so we all remember who's in charge.
Angry at being vulnerable. Powerless.
But just bloody minded enough to keep showing up because we haven't survived this long just to give up now.
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
r
Tonight I showed up at Dinner and there was a small serious group of people gathered outside the door of the room. As soon as I got out of the car, N. F. came over, threw his hands in the air and said, "That's it. It's over. This is the last one." Huh? He told me with a shaky voice that the manager had told C. L. that the owner had told him (follow that?) to shut down the room because they couldn't afford the electricity. This was to be the last Dinner in the room. "No more Dinner. No more Breakfast. Period."
I listened for a few minutes, with that same old sinking feeling, hearing N. F.'s voice shake and seeing the disbelief, the injustice in his eyes, the tension in his hands and arms. I went in to find C. L. and she was nearly in tears. Talking too fast and shaky. "What are we going to do with all of our stuff? We'll have to find a place to keep it. What are we going to do? Why did I have to be the one to tell everybody? Why couldn't he tell them himself? Why am I stuck in the middle?"
L. L. was sitting on a chair, arms folded, face grim, shaking her head. She'd walked all the way home after working a long shift waiting tables and now, "How can they do this? How can they say they can't afford it? Don't they know we need this?"
E. came in carrying her casserole for Dinner. She said that the manager, not 10 minutes before breaking the news to C. L., had been asking her how she was and whether she was getting enough to eat. "How can he ask me that, and then do this?"
Everybody was very upset and angry. Disbelieving. How can they do this to us? How can they take this away?
N. F. was stalking the room like the world was about to end and he was going to do something about it, as soon as he could figure out who to strangle.
So S. stood up on a chair and announced to the 35 or so people there that no matter what, we'd make it work. That if we couldn't have Dinner in this room, we'd have it somewhere else. That next week, we'd have a tailgate party, or a barbeque. Whatever. We wouldn't just give up.
The mood lightened at that and the line formed at the table and we started eating.
In all the kerfuffle, I didn't notice R. slip out. Our resident rev. While we were all hyperventilating and filling our upset stomachs, he'd gone looking for the manager.
45 minutes later, he came back in and said, "We're OK for next week."
He'd spent nearly an hour listening to the manager, hearing him out. Mostly, hearing what he wants. He wants us to build a wall to cut the room in half. He wants to keep the Dinner going. He wants the electric bill drastically reduced. He wants me to put my band back together and have concerts again. He wants the 'gospel preached'. He wants, he wants, he wants.
After having vented all of this, he rescinded the order that had supposedly come from the owners and, once again, everything was just peachy.
Leaving everyone feeling deflated and exhausted and bewildered.
I'm deeply grateful for R.'s willingness to step out and for the rapport that he has with the manager that the rest of us just don't have.
And next week we're having a barbeque, weather permitting.
But I'm still angry.
Angry that my friends were so hurt and upset and worried.
Angry that we're entering our third year of Dinners and we're still only tolerated week to week.
Angry that a physical and emotional necessity is being used to manipulate the power structure.
Angry that Dinner is turning into a leash to be yanked occasionally, just so we all remember who's in charge.
Angry at being vulnerable. Powerless.
But just bloody minded enough to keep showing up because we haven't survived this long just to give up now.
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.
r
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