We actually ran out of food last night. I always worry that we will, but it's only happened once before and then we had hot dogs on hand. Last night a few of us went home having had only dessert. It was mostly a planning problem.
One the plus side, we've got a new partner, these days. Local Baptist church has promised to provide meals on the first week of every other month, which is awesome. We're starting to realize that we're suffering from cooking fatigue. Some of us have been doing this nearly every week for almost 3 years and, much as we love the people we're cooking for, it's getting a bit old and we're happy to have some others to share that.
Local Baptist is the church where our Public Appearance took place last Saturday. C. wasn't feeling well enough to come, which sucked, but C.L. and I went and had our chance to talk about what we do. It went really well, I think. C.L. talked about the people who live there, and I talked more about Dinner in particular. And I played my ukulele. Yay.
The women asked a number of questions, one of which keeps coming up. Seems like everyone I talk to about the Motel asks, "How many people live there?" The answer, "About 80" always comes as a surprise. Such a basic piece of information, and nobody in town seems to know, not even town staff or officials. The place has been a blind spot for so long, all anybody knows is that it has a bad reputation and that every now and then they see on the court page of the local paper "The accused lives at the Motel."
I was talking last night with C., who has a real passion for the place and how good a thing it can be. She said that a few months ago, when a church group was providing Dinner, she found herself sitting with some 'church people'. She said that one of them leaned over to her and said, "I feel so sorry for you having to live in a place like this."
She said, "It made me feel tiny. Just tiny." She's a very intelligent woman, creative, strong and hopeful and to be pitied like that must have been sickening. But that's the attitude that Motelians encounter all the time. A mix of uninformed pity and mistrust.
She's looking at organizing a residents' meeting to talk about community issues and sort out some stuff, which is awesome. I was eavesdropping on the conversation last night after Dinner and I have to admit I kept wanting to offer to help. I've got some experience organizing things and working with people and she's just getting started and maybe I could help her avoid some pitfalls. Help her design the poster, to choose the wording, to keep things under control. After all, I want to see her succeed. I want to help her succeed.
But...
I bit my tongue. What could I possibly have to contribute to a town hall meeting for a town where I don't live? It would be so easy and it's so tempting to stick my oar in and tell her how to do things and give her advice and whatnot. It's so easy to play the colonialist and assume I know stuff she needs to know. It's so easy to be superior and to help when I haven't been asked to and probably won't be. We keep reminding ourselves that we're guests at the Motel. We don't live there. It's not our home. We visit friends and have fun, but it's not our community.
Which is a strange thing sometimes.
Like this week. A friend at the Motel was facing an appeal hearing for disability benefits, a long frustrating process. She was hoping that she'd get word that the hearing was unnecessary because her denial had been overturned. I was going to go along to the hearing for moral support, so she wouldn't be on her own. I was actually looking forward to it. I've never been to a hearing like this and wondered how they're run and what happens there. I thought, to be honest, I might get a blog post out of it.
But she got the news she was hoping for. The hearing was cancelled because her appeal had been approved. When she called to let me know, I was genuinely happy for her. It's wonderful news. (More on that whole thing some other time.)
But when I hung up, I admit I thought, "Oh, well. Never mind."
It would have been nice to be the friend, to have her be grateful to me for going along, glad to have me there. It would have been nice to be able to help.
But why? Why do I want to help C. with her residents' meeting? Because I'm the strong one? The smart one? Privileged? Beneficent? Condescending?
I know that's not entirely true. But it might be a bit.
And it's not just that we all need to be needed. That's a little too kind.
Truth is, we all want to be admired. Appreciated. We all want to show off what we've got, just a little, whether it's intelligence or wealth or compassion or efficiency. It's how we remind the world and ourselves that we're worth something. Worth listening to. Worth patting on the back.
We're happy to work invisibly all year if it means we'll get our name in the paper, nominated for "Volunteer of the Year". We're happy to help folks if they know it's we who helped them. It's my car, I took time off work, I could be doing something else right now. But I choose to be here with you. I feel so sorry for you having to live like this.
But that's not humility, is it? It's not love. It's not respect.
And how can you be a friend, a real, honest-to-God human being if you can't look at someone without looking down on them? Hoping they look up to you?
I'm a great believer that "There is no limit to what can be accomplished if it doesn't matter who gets the credit."
Great believer, imperfect practitioner.
r
One the plus side, we've got a new partner, these days. Local Baptist church has promised to provide meals on the first week of every other month, which is awesome. We're starting to realize that we're suffering from cooking fatigue. Some of us have been doing this nearly every week for almost 3 years and, much as we love the people we're cooking for, it's getting a bit old and we're happy to have some others to share that.
Local Baptist is the church where our Public Appearance took place last Saturday. C. wasn't feeling well enough to come, which sucked, but C.L. and I went and had our chance to talk about what we do. It went really well, I think. C.L. talked about the people who live there, and I talked more about Dinner in particular. And I played my ukulele. Yay.
The women asked a number of questions, one of which keeps coming up. Seems like everyone I talk to about the Motel asks, "How many people live there?" The answer, "About 80" always comes as a surprise. Such a basic piece of information, and nobody in town seems to know, not even town staff or officials. The place has been a blind spot for so long, all anybody knows is that it has a bad reputation and that every now and then they see on the court page of the local paper "The accused lives at the Motel."
I was talking last night with C., who has a real passion for the place and how good a thing it can be. She said that a few months ago, when a church group was providing Dinner, she found herself sitting with some 'church people'. She said that one of them leaned over to her and said, "I feel so sorry for you having to live in a place like this."
She said, "It made me feel tiny. Just tiny." She's a very intelligent woman, creative, strong and hopeful and to be pitied like that must have been sickening. But that's the attitude that Motelians encounter all the time. A mix of uninformed pity and mistrust.
She's looking at organizing a residents' meeting to talk about community issues and sort out some stuff, which is awesome. I was eavesdropping on the conversation last night after Dinner and I have to admit I kept wanting to offer to help. I've got some experience organizing things and working with people and she's just getting started and maybe I could help her avoid some pitfalls. Help her design the poster, to choose the wording, to keep things under control. After all, I want to see her succeed. I want to help her succeed.
But...
I bit my tongue. What could I possibly have to contribute to a town hall meeting for a town where I don't live? It would be so easy and it's so tempting to stick my oar in and tell her how to do things and give her advice and whatnot. It's so easy to play the colonialist and assume I know stuff she needs to know. It's so easy to be superior and to help when I haven't been asked to and probably won't be. We keep reminding ourselves that we're guests at the Motel. We don't live there. It's not our home. We visit friends and have fun, but it's not our community.
Which is a strange thing sometimes.
Like this week. A friend at the Motel was facing an appeal hearing for disability benefits, a long frustrating process. She was hoping that she'd get word that the hearing was unnecessary because her denial had been overturned. I was going to go along to the hearing for moral support, so she wouldn't be on her own. I was actually looking forward to it. I've never been to a hearing like this and wondered how they're run and what happens there. I thought, to be honest, I might get a blog post out of it.
But she got the news she was hoping for. The hearing was cancelled because her appeal had been approved. When she called to let me know, I was genuinely happy for her. It's wonderful news. (More on that whole thing some other time.)
But when I hung up, I admit I thought, "Oh, well. Never mind."
It would have been nice to be the friend, to have her be grateful to me for going along, glad to have me there. It would have been nice to be able to help.
But why? Why do I want to help C. with her residents' meeting? Because I'm the strong one? The smart one? Privileged? Beneficent? Condescending?
I know that's not entirely true. But it might be a bit.
And it's not just that we all need to be needed. That's a little too kind.
Truth is, we all want to be admired. Appreciated. We all want to show off what we've got, just a little, whether it's intelligence or wealth or compassion or efficiency. It's how we remind the world and ourselves that we're worth something. Worth listening to. Worth patting on the back.
We're happy to work invisibly all year if it means we'll get our name in the paper, nominated for "Volunteer of the Year". We're happy to help folks if they know it's we who helped them. It's my car, I took time off work, I could be doing something else right now. But I choose to be here with you. I feel so sorry for you having to live like this.
But that's not humility, is it? It's not love. It's not respect.
And how can you be a friend, a real, honest-to-God human being if you can't look at someone without looking down on them? Hoping they look up to you?
I'm a great believer that "There is no limit to what can be accomplished if it doesn't matter who gets the credit."
Great believer, imperfect practitioner.
r
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