Snippet Número 1: Living on the Street
Last Thursday a former co-worker and I headed over to N Street Village, a women's homeless shelter on 14th and N Streets here in our dear city, Washington, DC. We had signed up to help serve lunch in the shelter's cafeteria. I'd attended orientation there but had forgotten how best to get into the cafeteria. So, I rambled into the shelter's courtyard, a pretty big space that's neatly landscaped and lined with tiles.
I approached the door and an older woman sitting nearby smoking meekly asked me who I was there to meet. I told her I was there to help serve lunch and she directed me to a blue door on the other side of the courtyard that shoots straight to the cafeteria.
About face, I thanked her and headed off. As I retraced my steps through the courtyard, I passed three other women smoking on a bench. They purred, whistled, and shouted at me: "Hey baby! Hey, come over here sweetie! Let me check you out!" And some other things that probably shouldn't be repeated.
I ducked into the cafeteria and saw my co-worker and fellow volunteer lunch server. We donned our hair nets and shoved our hands into our powder-lined gloves. Once the volunteer coordinator headed off after instructing us on how to dole out the rice, chicken, salad, and bread (only two pats of butter per person), I confessed my shame to my friend.
I started, "You won't believe it but I got heckled on the way over here!"
"Where?" she replied, curious, but still focused on prepping the styrofoam plates.
"In the courtyard," I answered.
"By women?" she asked, incredulous.
"Women! Yea!"
"Oh boy," she shot back. "Whatcha gonna do if she comes in here for lunch? Are you gonna confront her?"
"Aw, no. She was pretty burly."
We set to work, engineering an assembly line to best serve the food. Of course, the woman from the courtyard, the most vocal, came into the cafeteria ten minutes into lunch. Stephanie and I were taking turns, serving every other woman. And, as my luck would have it, I was up to serve my "admirer." Looking her straight in the eye, she looked young and pretty, almost sweet, though she was close to six feet tall, I'd reckon.
She thanked me three times, with each plop of the serving spoon. Maybe she felt embarrrassed over what she'd done. I don't know.
I'd decided to volunteer at the women's shelter as I'd helped out with street outreach through which we served breakfast to the homeless in a park near the State Department and at St. Stephen's Loaves and Fishes, which provides the homeless and hungry a hearty Sunday brunch. I had good experiences with both organizations but my friendliness and openness have been misinterpreted by the men I serve as flirtation or even worse.
When I learned of N Street and that it serves only women, I thought, perfecto! I can be as open and chatty as I like and no one will think I'm coming on to them or open to their sexual advances. I guess I was wrong or maybe the woman in the courtyard was just testing me, giving me a hard time. And maybe I need to learn how to better relate (to better help) those less fortunate than myself.
I have the luxury to be open and free. Silly even. But many of those individuals served by N Street, D.C. Central Kitchen, and Loaves and Fishes (and tons of similar organizations in the U.S. and elsewhere) have to be more guarded, building up a bristly exterior to make it through days wandering and sleeping on the street.
Last Thursday a former co-worker and I headed over to N Street Village, a women's homeless shelter on 14th and N Streets here in our dear city, Washington, DC. We had signed up to help serve lunch in the shelter's cafeteria. I'd attended orientation there but had forgotten how best to get into the cafeteria. So, I rambled into the shelter's courtyard, a pretty big space that's neatly landscaped and lined with tiles.
I approached the door and an older woman sitting nearby smoking meekly asked me who I was there to meet. I told her I was there to help serve lunch and she directed me to a blue door on the other side of the courtyard that shoots straight to the cafeteria.
About face, I thanked her and headed off. As I retraced my steps through the courtyard, I passed three other women smoking on a bench. They purred, whistled, and shouted at me: "Hey baby! Hey, come over here sweetie! Let me check you out!" And some other things that probably shouldn't be repeated.
I ducked into the cafeteria and saw my co-worker and fellow volunteer lunch server. We donned our hair nets and shoved our hands into our powder-lined gloves. Once the volunteer coordinator headed off after instructing us on how to dole out the rice, chicken, salad, and bread (only two pats of butter per person), I confessed my shame to my friend.
I started, "You won't believe it but I got heckled on the way over here!"
"Where?" she replied, curious, but still focused on prepping the styrofoam plates.
"In the courtyard," I answered.
"By women?" she asked, incredulous.
"Women! Yea!"
"Oh boy," she shot back. "Whatcha gonna do if she comes in here for lunch? Are you gonna confront her?"
"Aw, no. She was pretty burly."
We set to work, engineering an assembly line to best serve the food. Of course, the woman from the courtyard, the most vocal, came into the cafeteria ten minutes into lunch. Stephanie and I were taking turns, serving every other woman. And, as my luck would have it, I was up to serve my "admirer." Looking her straight in the eye, she looked young and pretty, almost sweet, though she was close to six feet tall, I'd reckon.
She thanked me three times, with each plop of the serving spoon. Maybe she felt embarrrassed over what she'd done. I don't know.
I'd decided to volunteer at the women's shelter as I'd helped out with street outreach through which we served breakfast to the homeless in a park near the State Department and at St. Stephen's Loaves and Fishes, which provides the homeless and hungry a hearty Sunday brunch. I had good experiences with both organizations but my friendliness and openness have been misinterpreted by the men I serve as flirtation or even worse.
When I learned of N Street and that it serves only women, I thought, perfecto! I can be as open and chatty as I like and no one will think I'm coming on to them or open to their sexual advances. I guess I was wrong or maybe the woman in the courtyard was just testing me, giving me a hard time. And maybe I need to learn how to better relate (to better help) those less fortunate than myself.
I have the luxury to be open and free. Silly even. But many of those individuals served by N Street, D.C. Central Kitchen, and Loaves and Fishes (and tons of similar organizations in the U.S. and elsewhere) have to be more guarded, building up a bristly exterior to make it through days wandering and sleeping on the street.
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