I arrived at Crisis exactly on time. D was waiting on the stoop at the front of the shabby white brick building as promised. He wore a pale yellow tee shirt and squinted against the sun to greet me and shake my hand. He signed me in at the desk and explained that I could write my name down as “Bob” and it wouldn’t matter because it’s only for a head count; most people here are under false names.
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Staircases were lined with art from the homeless people who take classes there. Only they aren’t really classes. An instructor is on hand, but only to help if approached. There is no distinction between homeless and volunteer unless asked. Everyone is treated equally.
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I followed D up two flights of stairs. He introduced me to L, another volunteer. L was a tall man with chocolate skin and a bright smile. I was about to shake his hand when a demanding voice behind me said, “Where’s the fuckin’ tea, man? It’s 1:00.” L smiled and I turned to see a short man in his 30s, wearing a plaid blue shirt, with the top three buttons down to reveal a hairy chest, and jeans. His eyes were such a pale blue they seemed to belong to someone else. “Yea, I’m coming now,” L answered and walked away with a shy smile for an excuse.
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D led me into a computer room next. A few people about my age were using them and were in their own little worlds. So we walked to the next room, the art room. It was huge, with tables covered in sheets of paper and coloured pencils, jars of paint and half-finished drawings of plants and birds. We sat down on two dirty chairs and he pointed to people across the room explaining who they are. There were only about five people there, and they were engrossed in their printmaking and painting. One woman with a long braid was covered in paint and glitter.
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Up one more flight of stairs, we found L and the man in the plaid shirt talking over tea. Next to them were two men playing cards. We were in a recreation type room where tea is served for 45 minutes sharp at various intervals throughout the day according to the schedule. D made me tea in a Styrofoam cup and we sat down at one of the tables with a blue bag full of grapes at the centre. He picked one up and gnawed at one end and pushed the bag toward me. I took one.
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The room was inviting with tall wooden ceilings and windows that looked down on Commercial Street near Petticoat Lane market. It had a kitchen area and potted plants in some corners. Tables were set up for socializing and relaxing. I felt comfortable there. An older woman sat at the table next to us fiddling with a rickety old guitar. She stared vacantly at the wall, not strumming it, just playing with the tuning knobs.
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Another woman walked by and David reached out and touched her shoulder. He nodded towards me and said, “This is my friend, Stephanie.” No one is ever introduced as a volunteer. I'll refer to her as M. Meeting her was my favourite part of the day. M was born in Rome and came to London about a year ago so her Italian accent was strong and I had to strain to understand her vibrant conversation.
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She may have been a bit older than me. The first thing I noticed about her was her teeth. She didn’t have any on the right side of her mouth. Well, one, sort of and one that was kind of blue. The second thing I noticed was her smile. She didn’t stop smiling and she seemed so happy and animated. Stories about Rome came flooding out of her mouth, tales of men who walked into a pub and within minutes had all the patrons singing a song together, memories of Pairs. I listened intently and she warmed to me quickly.
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Dirt was piled thick under her fingernails and her dark, shoulder-length hair was curly, sticking out from a Nike baseball cap that was yellowed around the edges. It had a red Swoosh. She wore a long sleeved tee-shirt with a Van Gogh image on the front and a pair of jeans. Her arms were thin and her face was pale. But, that smile. Where did that come from?
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She went on about consumerism and superficial cultures and Chinese manufacturers and I admired her ability to speak intelligently about these things. Admittedly, I fall into the category of people who have accidentally judged someone based on their situation or appearance. Stereotypes suggest homeless people are less likely to be educated, but clearly she was. I wanted to sit with her and chat for hours.
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When she left, D turned to me and said, “I’ve never seen her open up to anyone the way she just did with you.”
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He asked me if I wanted to accompany him to Mother Teresa’s in Elephant and Castle. It was a 25 minute tube journey and it was only 2pm so I said sure. Every Sunday afternoon he helps out in the soup kitchen. Clearly, he is well-known in the area because he said “salaam” or waved to people we passed. It seemed so out of place to hear a ruddy-faced British man addressing Indian men in their language with a little wag of the head. I liked it.
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When we approached the soup kitchen, bushes formed walls around the garden and inside the walls of bushes, about 150 homeless people gathered with backpacks and sleeping bags and plastic shopping bags, waiting for the doors to open in 15 minutes. D waved to a few people and led me inside. A few men winked at me as I walked up the steps.
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I’ve worked in the Dunkirk soup kitchen in New York a few times, but this was completely different. I guess I should have realized there would be religion involved because it was run by nuns and I knew that much.
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When the tables were set, the nuns and the volunteers gathered in the sweltering kitchen where one of the sisters led the prayers and a blessing and the people chanted along and sang parts. D ushered me to a spot where I could read a poster on the back wall with the words. I didn’t participate, just bowed my head in respect and when they crossed themselves as Catholics do, I just stood there. Religion is another entry altogether, but know that it makes me slightly uncomfortable.
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At 3pm sharp, one of the sisters opened the door and as the men started flooding in with their belongings, the smell of unwashed bodies filled the room. I didn’t notice it after a while, but it was overpowering at first. About 75 people came in the first lot, no children, maybe ten women, the rest men. Some of them were young and wore nice clothes so I would never guess them to be people who sleep on the streets. These people were slightly rowdy. Others were older and have accepted their circumstances. The men had long white beards. They walked slowly with their heads down and didn’t speak much during the meal.
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When everyone was seated, the head sister called order and announced a hymn. Pages rustled. And then, to my amazement, nearly everyone joined in singing the old spiritual. I felt so awkward standing at the front in a line of a few volunteers, wearing clean clothes, freshly showered. There were tears in some eyes as they sang. A feeling of guilt rushed through me as I looked around. It was as if I had entered their secret little world to say, “Hey, look at me. Here I am up here. I’m not one of you.” And for a moment, a passing moment, I wished I was one of them instead, sitting with all those people who understood me. Why? Because they were all so god damn appreciative to sit there in that warm building and eat a sloppy plate full of processed mashed potatoes and frozen vegetables. A leg of chicken. A smattering of gravy. And a small scoop of ice cream. They were so grateful, and something so simple brought a smile to their faces so easily.
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The nun read a short sermon about the ten lepers and talked about the two most important words we ever learn: “thank-you” and “sorry.” People nodded in agreement and chanted along with her prayers at the end. I couldn’t wait for the religion bit to end. I felt my heart beating too quickly standing there silently willing for her to stop.
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And then, with a final “Amen” we passed out plates in assembly line fashion, handing them down the line. And then blue mugs full of tea and blue plastic bowls full of ice cream. Some people had seconds; they were allowed everything but the chicken. Men said, “Thanks love” and reached for my hand and kissed it with food stuck in overgrown beards and moustaches. It broke my heart when an old man asked for a slice of bread to take to his pregnant daughter and the nun said they don’t have any bread.
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One pregnant woman was there. She was with her boyfriend and they held hands. They held hands all through their meal and I wondered what it must me like to be in love and be homeless, to have each other and only each other. Not to have a private place to make love. And what of that unborn child. The whole thing reminded me of the Smashing Pumpkins video of Try, Try, Try.
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It was over as soon as it began. I helped clear tables, wash dishes, and reset tables with hymnals next to the napkins.
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I left before the second lot of 75 was allowed to enter. I don’t know if I will go back. The religion part put me off and it was difficult to see all those people standing out there when I knew I was going home to a warm house and a hot shower and my lap top and a cup of mint tea before crawling under my duvet. I want to say I will go back, that this is what I need to bring some sort of fulfilment to my life, but it didn’t feel as fulfilling as volunteering has in the past; it just brought waves of guilt under my skin and a sense of panic to my heart. I think most of that was knowing how insignificant my being there is to those people, that in the grand scheme of things, I know I can't help much at all.
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I hate the night bus – full of drunken people, screeching people, puking people, violent people, smelly people, etc. I usually take a different one, but decided to wait for the N52 for a change. Around Hyde Park just before Knightsbridge, I watched a drunk guy cycling in the street steer himself into the curb and fly off his bike into a lamp post. He sat on the ground, his bike still lying in the street with wheels spinning, and he cracked open a can of beer that was in his pocket - playing it cool.
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