Posts tagged service

In the basement of Laboure House we set up chairs in a circle.  The seniors made their way into the room, some with walkers, some striding confidently to a seat, some shuffling along the linoleum floor.  

We were there for a program called “Life Stories” where seniors would talk about the pivotal points in their lives, the memories that they wanted remembered, that they found themselves telling again and again, and then with the help of volunteers, those stories would turn into something more than words evaporating into air, they would become a performance at a local theater, a book, a website, a film; a part of the memories of others.

Today was the very first day of Life Stories, Amanda, our guest artist was eager to get started, volunteers Beth, Judy, Francine, Kevin all chatted up the seniors and made them feel welcome as they came in.

I was interested in Josephine.  In the year I had volunteered at Laboure House, I had never heard her voice.  Mary House said, “She doesn’t talk.”  Mary House had a lot to say, gregarious large personality, a farm girl from Michigan who had bought a list of eligible neighborhood bachelors for  $5 from the local matchmaker had married the second man on the list, because as she said “The first guy didn’t answer his phone.”

Amanda started the project.  We had two hours every Saturday morning together and a curriculum that would develop not only the stories, but also the story telling, so that in 8 months time when we found ourselves on stage at Live Bait Theater, something would happen.  The exercise today was to get to know each other, to share a memory, to take turns speaking and listening.

We went around the circle, over and over, as we went we learned Richard was in the Secret Service, Tom used to sell newspapers and use the earnings to go to Riverview, Madeline had been in the roller derby, Deloris wrote poetry and had always lived with her Mother before moving here, Sister Mary – who was 85 – thought she wouldn’t stay much longer at Laboure House, she had more work to do in the community, and every time we got to Josephine, she looked at me and we gave her a moment, then we passed.

Josephine did not speak to volunteers. She did not speak to residents. She did not speak to anyone except in a quiet voice, to the House Mother, Angela.  That Josephine came down to the project at all was a victory; she wanted to interact.  She was still, this first project, so very quiet.

Around the circle, the time flew, Mary House interrupted Madeline, they sparred in a good-natured way, and their listening skills were going to need to be developed.  Stories came out and wove together, hanging above the room, remembered by the volunteers that were there that day long after.  

“Alright, this is the final question of the day before we break for lunch.”  Amanda had a warm smile, an encouraging tone that made it easy for you to open up, to trust her vision, to share your life. 

We went around the circle.  The stories flowed and then we came to Josephine.

We waited our moment, expecting nothing.

The silence was broken by a small voice. 

Josephine.

Not just one word, many.

Josephine told the story of her life, how she was born in Kaui, Hawaii, had grown up in an abusive home, and wanted so much to escape.  She told us how she spent years planning and saving and advocating with her strict parents to go to beauty school on the mainland.  Finally they had agreed and she left for San Diego in October 1941.

In December, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.  Josephine is Japanese American and had spent some of her childhood in Okinawa.

Her tale shifted to internment at Manzanar and what it was like for her living in the camp. 

We were silent.  The only sound in the room was her small voice and the hum of the furnace in the corner.

She told us that her home life had been so restrictive, that she had been beaten, that she was thrown away and of little value to her family, that camp life was better. She spoke about hiking, and about freedom within the confines of what was an American Concentration Camp. 

We couldn’t wrap our heads around that idea.

She went to the camp officials with a friend and convinced them to let them go to Chicago.  She wanted to become a hairdresser.  They lied and said someone would sponsor them.

She made it to Chicago, where in a diner, with no money for food a man offered to buy her breakfast, and offered her a job cleaning house.  But he could not pronounce her name so he called her Josephine.

Josephine spoke.  She told the story of her life, of gaining her freedom, of how she got her name to a group of strangers in the silence of the basement and when she was done, Mary House said “She has been through a great deal, hasn’t she.” 

We all agreed she had.

After that day, Josephine was still shy, still quiet, but her voice over the months grew louder and louder.

8 months later, she sat in a chair on stage and crocheted granny squares waiting her turn to tell her tale to sold out crowds, standing room only, her hands working feverishly as Mary House cracked a joke that made the crowd break out in laughter, Deloris recited a poem, Madelyn broke our hearts with the story of her lost love shot down over Italy in WW2, Tom’s adventures growing up in Bridgeport, Richard’s shoe factory, patiently waiting for when the spotlight would shine on her chair, illuminate her face, when it would be her turn for her voice to be heard.

Josephine spoke. 

I stood in the chapel, the lights off, except one in the back directly over the card table set up with glue, glitter, cards, a game set, construction paper and other supplies I knew had been carefully counted, boxed up and delivered earlier that week. I knew there were fruit snacks somewhere nearby that Seven had pulled off a shelf at Target and I had delivered to a warehouse on the West Side. 

I did not know the woman standing in the chapel. Her head, covered with a scarf, eyebrows growing in, but sparse.  I did not know her, but I do now. 

Her eyes were bright, and excited, she told us all about the activities she would do with the kids when they arrived later that day.  She would play a game called “The Bully Machine” with them, where every turn they could either build or destroy the bully machine, and create a more peaceful world.  They would learn how their choices and actions affect others, and create a culture where bullying exists, or doesn’t.  The kids have the power. 

She was so excited, you see, because she has aggressive breast cancer and a 7 year old daughter.  She has been bullied, she has felt stares, she worries about her daughter, she felt strong and she wanted to give back, so she is here, in a shelter on the West Side volunteering. 

Because the time is always right to do what is right. 

At the next stop, they are building a reading area in a preschool classroom, including benches and cubbies for the kids to put their things when they arrive at school.  Volunteers pencil out a mural on the wall, others paint classrooms, and all are there with a smile.  I talk to a young man, about 12, who with his father is hammering in nails to complete their bench. 

“I don’t have to be here, but I want to be here, I want to make a difference.”

He is doing what is right. He is doing what is right for himself, as well as for the kids who will use this bench who he will never know. 

Down the road the gym is full of little children, they have paper booklets, passports, and go from station to station, learning about different cultures through games, crafts and activities, they get a prize and a page for their passport before moving to the next country.  A man with a bottle of white glue and a stack of black construction paper helps a girl and her mom make a mendi pattern in glue and then sprinkle it with gold glitter before her smile lights up and he smiles too and the Mother looks up at him and says simply “thank you.” 

“The time is always right to do what is right.”

Further north, I enter the ballroom, and hear a voice singing along with Karaoke, the voice is attached to a young man, face painted to look like a cat, smiling big, and a line behind him of others waiting their turn.  Further in the room people are dancing to the music, some sit at tables and make crafts, flowers out of tissue paper, and taking up the most space at the back of the room is a group of 20 volunteers and an equal number of adults with developmental disabilities playing beach ball. 6 or 7 large inflated balls soar towards the ceiling and come down again to earth caught and thrown again with great gusto. 

And I cried. 

There was such joy in the faces of the volunteers, in the faces of the adults, on the face of the woman who works at the home - who said she never has a chance to offer her residents such a fun filled day - she was blown away.  There was such joy in seeing people connect with each other, strangers becoming friends,  that I was overwhelmed. 

And that is pretty amazing after all these years. 

I cried and I gave my staff member a hug, she did an amazing job.  She and her teammates made this happen, all these interactions across this big, broad, jaded city, soften us, connected us, helped us all feel what it means to do what is right. 

To get better.

To be stronger. 

And I hope that Dr King would feel proud of us, on this day, that we honor him through service.  I hope I have learned the message that he sent, which was not one only about civil rights, but more so about poverty, community, peace and shared responsibility. 

And I am hopeful for us all when I see the difference we made by showing up, by opening our hearts, by rolling up our sleeves, by getting involved. 

“The time is always right to do what is right.”  It isn’t always easy, but it is always worth it. 

And 23 hours until this event is put to bed for another year.

It is going to be a wonderful day for so many, this work and these hours are worth it.

I sat at a table in a grade school library and read a book with a group of second graders. I showed them a photo of Seven, and they remarked that she was also white like me. And I said I ordered Purple, but she just came out that way. 

I watched middle schoolers set up laptops and start their own blogs. 

I witnessed 3rd and 4th Graders as they did improve exercises and let their imagination meet their energy. 

I met a 89 year old woman who takes care of her public housing building garden, she showed me Okra, Swiss Chard, the remains of her tomatoes.

Today, I volunteered.  I connected with my community.  I saw a lot of smiles. I smiled a lot myself.

Today, I got better.  I volunteered. 

I found Andrea on Lenny and Dawn’s porch with her shovel. I had mine, and six rolled around on top of snow drifts that dwarfed her.

The snow is heavy and deep. I used my orange plastic scoop shovel to remove the top half of snow, and she came after with her deeper shovel to get the bottom layer. In this fashion, smiling and chatting, we made a two foot deep trench from their front stoop to the street and down the sidewalk.

Six dug into the snow until only her feet dangled out of the hole she made, she played in the unplowed street, thick, up to her chest, she used a toy shovel to help us clear the way. She and other six sled down the neighbor’s stoop.

Lenny comes outside, shovel in hand, feeling guilty we are breaking a sweat on his behalf.

No, no…we say, we are fine. We promised Julie we would help, let us help.

He mills around on his porch, not settled into the idea of being the recipient rather the the giver.

Lenny and his wife, Dawn, are the heart of the block. In their late 70’s, they know what is going on, look out for neighbors, keep the block together and make it feel like home.

Normally, Lenny would be the one with the shovel outside clearing snow for his neighbors.

He offers us coffee, we decline, can’t figure out how to drink it and shovel at the same time. He talks about shoveling the back and we offer to go do that bit too, the drifts in the alley are high, he will not be able to get out, none of us will for many days to come.

Inside his grandson sleeps on his wife’s lap. Taking care of Liam while his daughter cares for Jake, some 30 miles north, is what he needs to do to weather this storm.

What I can do, to help, is clear off the top layer of snow, so Andrea can clear the bottom.

I feel helpless looking at the screen, seeing the images in the paper and on TV of the devastation in Haiti.  I felt helpless watching like a voyeur the pain of families, mothers, children, fathers, sons as tragedy unfolds after the Tsunamis, earthquakes, hurricanes, terrorist attacks.  I felt helpless; because I wanted to do something, I want to do more than send a check.  And in most cases, I could not.  And in some cases, I could not afford to even send that.

I can not deploy to Haiti to serve.  I can not remove rubble or build housing in Port a Prince.  I can not bring water to the thirsty or food to the hungry.  I can not do these things for the people we see suffering.  Even though I am desperate to help, I can not help the way that I would like. 

But I can help someone.

I can not aid those that suffer in Haiti, but I can help a family in need in Englewood.  I can visit a senior in Rogers Park.  I can help an 8^th grader with their math homework.  I can build a playground for the school where the only place for the children to play is asphalt.  

Bill waits for Holly at the door, in his wheelchair, and when she arrives, his smile lights up the room.  Holly has been Bill’s volunteer for over 10 years, coming every Monday night to play Bingo, provide companionship and offer a warm and friendly smile.  Last year, when Holly was given an award for her service, Bill made sure he was there, in his chair to present it to her.  40 years separate them, but there will never be better friends.

Inside the classroom 20 six year olds wait for Ron. He brings in the boxes and they all start giggling, excited for the day’s experiments. What will they do today?  Ron and his volunteers unpack the plastic bottles, sand, water, salt and other supplies for the lesson.  Today these 20 six year olds will create their very own portable oceans, in their classroom, on an otherwise beautiful Saturday morning.  They would rather be in school.

Norm waits for Mary, shifting weight back and forth, until she comes through the door, with her team of volunteers.  Norm is 72, he runs the neighborhood pantry, he just can’t lift boxes anymore.  He can’t unload the truck.  He can’t make the bags for the families that come in, working Mom’s and Dad’s with children, who just need a little help, a few things to get by until the next check.  But Mary and her volunteer, they can unload the truck, sort the food, pack the boxes, help the families, smile at the Mom who feels the red blush of shame at asking for help, a kind word to make her feel at ease, to let her know it is just a neighbor helping a neighbor, volunteers joke with the children, and load the groceries into the car.  Norm waits for Mary every Thursday.  Norm waits for Mary every Saturday.  And Mary comes.

I can not go to Haiti to help.  But I can help.  In Englewood. In Austin. In Rogers Park and Uptown.  I can help in Woodlawn.  I can be there in Washington Park.   I can not help Haiti, but I am not helpless.  So Saturday, I will volunteer.