REALITY CHECK
Illustration: Scott Drummond
By Ashley Marriott Jayplay writer
I gripped the steering wheel and absentmindedly watched the windshield wipers methodically sweep off the cold January rain. My friend and I were on our way to volunteer at a soup kitchen in downtown Kansas City area, and I didn't know quite what to expect. We were naive 16-year-olds from Johnson County. We lived in the part of town where the only difference between the houses was the color of the front door, people didn't realize crime was a concern and SUVs dominated the roadways. If you went farther north than Oak Park Mall you were considered really far away from home.
I slowly turned into the church parking lot where we were meeting a volunteer who would take us downtown. I climbed into the backseat of her car, and over the loud groans of a car without a muffler I listened to "Horror Stories of a Soup Kitchen." "The first rule of the kitchen is never let the visitors leave the premises with uneaten food," the volunteer explained. "They will try to save it for later, sell it for drugs or hide it so they can come back for more. There are police officers around the line in case a fight breaks out. On an average day a fight or two occurs." She said we would also encounter prostitutes, drug dealers and those who just need a friend to talk to, not the food. Like these are normal day occurrences in upper-middle class suburbia. I guess I had never thought this would be a job that could potentially be dangerous. I was beginning to get worried about what I had gotten myself into.
As we prepared the kitchen for our guests, an assortment of people began to line up at the door. When we opened to the public a short hour later, the line was out the door, forcing people to stand out in the frigid air. Families with seven children, lonesome widows looking for a conversation starter, hungry children without guardians and the elderly who could barely walk flooded the line, each thanking us for their one properly cooked meal of the day, or several days.
As I stood at the end of the line filling juice cups, a woman approached me. As she did she whispered the words, "God bless you for doing this for me." Although words were forming in my head my breath caught in my throat, forcing me to be silent. I felt less like a volunteer who was there just to fulfill some National Honor's Society hours and more like a friend. I wasn't there to just provide everyone with a chicken-fried steak and some mashed potatoes. I returned several times to the kitchen. I became the patient listener that didn't judge.
Five years later the woman's words are still deeply etched into my mind. As students we get so caught up in the day-to-day that we forget what is most important. For many, life is so much more complicated than finals, finding a date and deciding where to go for dinner. For some, that dinner would be the highlight of the day.
— Ashley Marriott can be reached at amarriot@kansan.com.
2.10.04 Jauplou
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