You would miss Tania from Ice For Less, who has faithfully and sacrificially donated both her truck and her time to pick up the food from Trader Joe’s for years without compensation. You would miss that this neighborhood entrepreneur, the hardest working and most successful community small business owner that I know, takes time out of her store and her deliveries to care for her neighbors. Her motivation? The senior citizens without health insurance, without safety net. She often tells me, when the work gets hard, that she remembers those who work and work and then, like her parents, face the fragility of old age.
Tania is worth not missing.
If you discounted FoodShare, you would surely miss our morning packing team, overseen by Americo, a community abuelo who orchestrates volunteers both at the morning and at the evening session. You would miss him refusing help, carrying every table out by himself and lugging in bags of non-perishables that he collects at other citywide food giveaways in order to redistribute at FoodShare. His daughter says he never once in their childhood received assistance, scrapping together whatever he needed to provide for his family; only now, in his retirement, does he gather the food for the purpose of giving to others. And if that weren’t enough, you’d miss Maribel, a mama of many small ones whose apartment and possessions burned not long ago, but who comes all the way in from their temporary housing by O’Hare to work Neighbor’s Table. You’d miss the broken Spanglish we all communicate in in order to include not only Maribel and Americo, but Goodie, the beautiful German cat-collector from a few blocks away, who for years never misses a FoodShare. Ever.
Americo, Goodie, and Maribel: they are worth not missing.
Moving along to the actual Neighbor’s Table event. There’s no benefit to lining up in our system–numbers for food are randomly given–so the abuelas and mamas cannot be lining up for pure dependence, yet many get there far earlier than I do (with my four to six kids in tow). You might see the line and think “Food Pantry.” But you’d miss that whenever I come with my key to prep, it opens the door for everyone, because we all–every person in the [non-]line– works as a volunteer before the packing. Some watch children, some cut cake, some bring out food, some greet. Ms. Mary, the grandma across the street raising four kids whose mother was lost in a car accident, brings over their hand-me-downs. Luz Maria brings me three boxes of ice cream cones and scolds me for putting them on the share table: “Those were for your kids!” (who are already spoiled with the dollar Ms. Betsey gave them). The neighborhood women (aka Powers That Be) set out all the non-perishables and clothes, and then keep anyone, including themselves, from taking anything until it’s time.
The line-turned-volunteers are worth not missing.
And the youth. Oh, the youth. Our youth, of course, like all youth, can be energetic and focused solely on securing a basketball and a court for themselves and their friends. But at FoodShare, the youth become something else: the supporters of their elders. They move tables, they carry food. They take directions from Americo and distribute the food, modeling volunteerism for their co-workers, the children of all the volunteers and mamas and abuelas. (Kudos to Americo for overseeing a team almost entirely under age 15.) They clean and clean, and only after the work is done do they play. I am never more proud of our youth, never more hopeful for what they can bring to our elders, than on FoodShare evenings.
