Food Nazis

490 Outreach has partnered with a local church in a food distribution ministry, and so for that reason I found myself at an orientation gave by Central Illinois Foodbank yesterday.

Now the folks at Central Illinois Foodbank are great, and I love their whole philosophy on how to give out the food.  That is, with dignity, kindness and the assumption that these are adults who just need a spot of help, not serfs to be lorded over and made to feel bad.

I wondered who would want to do it the bad way, but yesterday showed who.  I won't name them, but a group applying to distribute food had apparently already been giving out food in another town, and were upset about how Central Illinois Foodbank didn't want IDs asked for or checked.

"But what about people who come twice for food?" was their concern.  "We need to check their ID to make sure they aren't coming back twice a month!"  To which it was answered that then maybe that meant that the person who did that was still hungry.  I nodded my head.  Made sense to me.

"But, we have some who get twice as much, and then they sell it!"

I couldn't let that one go.  I piped up, "Are you saying that you've had people ask for free food, and then sell such food on the black market?"

The two of them both nodded their heads and doubling down said, "Yes!"

The host of the meeting wisely dismissed this with referring to percentages and indicating that 99% would not so don't worry if 1% do, but me, I knew that it was bogus.  There is no 1% selling charity food bags on the "black market", that's not actually a thing.

Rather, the two women complaining at the thought of some getting more food were being Food Nazis.  

And I know that breed well.

First off, though, let me clear something up.  There is no black market for food in Central Illinois. That's not a thing.  But yes, there is a thing where someone will sell their LINK card, so if someone has $100 and wants about $200 worth of food, they can buy - or at least "rent" - the card.  

The LINK owner gets cash (50 cents on the dollar) and the purchaser can then acquire twice as much food.  There are bad reasons for this, like the LINK person wanting drugs, and there are good reasons for this, like the LINK person having more pressing bills to pay.

But see, here's the thing.  Food itself is not sold that way.  You can find a guy on a street corner or a bar who will sell you anything from Crack to Xanax, but no  one is going about saying, "Pssss.  Got some 'taters here.  A dub'll get you four bags worth, and we talkin' prime Idaho spuds!  You never had so good!"

Nor is there a market for jars of creamy peanut butter, cans of generic spaghetti sauce or packets of Top Ramen.  You know, the stuff you're likely to see gave out for free.  Because - and here's what those two Food Nazi ladies were missing - it is actually gave out for free, so why would someone buy it when they can just stroll by and have it for free?

I call them Food Nazis, because you see their breed a variety of places where food is gave out.  I saw another one just the other day at St. John's Breadline where a girl who could not have been more than 15 asked for a cup of soup.

Some see this face and think, "His avarice needs to be curbed!"
Others are human beings with souls.

The temporary aid worker, in theory volunteering there out of love of Christ and others, gave out a cup of soup. The girl, being a healthy and growing kid, looked at it, looked up, and while I was waiting for her to say, "Please sir, may I have some more?" instead just said, "Could I have two cups, please?"

"Only one per person.", but in saying that, it was not said with regret, but with clear satisfaction at getting to say "no".  The sure sign of a Food Nazi.  I looked at the girl sadly.  I looked at the implacable face of the aid worker, who had the eagerly expectant expression that says, "Please argue with me, so I can exert my authority even more."

I looked at the clock, ten till four.  Which meant that the soup - still four gallons of it - was going to be thrown out, as the serving day ends at four there.

I looked at him again, and said, "I'd like a cup of soup, too."  He was furious, as he could spot my type as surely as I could spot his.  But he gave it and made a big deal of saying, "Here is YOUR soup." This was to intimidate me into following the rules.  How little then he knew me after all!

"Thanks", I said, and gave it to the girl.  True, protocol in such matters is for both supplicants to go to the tables first and then give over the extra portion discretely.  But I'm not there for the food so much as the getting to meet potential clients.  He wanted to say something, but the woman who works there all the time and knows me just nudged him and shook her head.  She knew the deal.  She was there for her heart loving others and not wanting them in pain.

He was there to pretend he was a good person while lording it over folks he feels safe in looking down at.  

The Food Nazi is the spiritual brother of the Shelter Kings that I have wrote of before.  Those who having some modest amount of authority at a shelter, halfway house or sober living home try to make the others dance to their tune, waving their tiny wand of authority about as if it were a jeweled scepter of a Biblical Potentate of the Old Testament.

Both the Shelter King and the Food Nazi have in common several things.  

One, their authority is derived, that is, they are playing God with the shelter or food that other kinder souls have donated and entrusted to them to administrate.  

Two, like the Pharisees of old, they are in it to look good.  

Three, that "looking good" is the icing, the cake is the "pushing others down so they seem higher in comparison".

Like a Shelter King will give out petty orders just because he knows that the others will follow them for fear of having to spend a night outside in the winter, so a Food Nazi will attempt to make others dance for food that was meant for them, and meant freely, with no dancing.

I've seen a Food Nazi lady - another temp aid worker at the Breadline - threaten a roomful of grown adults and some children with taking the cart of food back if they didn't "shut up and sit down".  Then she surveyed each and every table with her gaze that would have done Mussolini proud making sure everyone was - like well trained doggies - sitting and watching attentively for the command to eat the biscuit on their nose.

She - seeing that her authority was reigning supreme in that 500 square foot realm of Springfield, Illinois - gave a curt nod of Royal permission and walked off, smugly pleased that only now could the hungry surge up and crowd about the cart for frozen bags of soup to take home, and some fresh zucchini.

These are the things I see as I sit at my table three times a week.  These are the things I experienced when down and out myself.

A rather mean spirited Russian philosopher once described social workers in America as "those double parasites who live off of the blood of the rich and the sores of the poor."  And if such aid workers as I call the Shelter Kings and Food Nazis were the only type, she'd have been right to characterize them all that way.

Fortunately, those who are mainly in charge, like those at the Central Illinois Foodbank, and many other various aid agencies, the goal is to help, not to hurt.  And I swore when I had nothing that one day I'd have a shelter "run right" with dignity, and no dancing.  

I did not anticipate back then that I'd be able to go even further one day, and have an actual food distribution ministry.  But I can guarantee you that it will be run the way the kind hearted people at the Central Illinois Foodbank want it run.

With dignity, and no dancing.  And I'm proud to be a member of the Seventh-day Adventist church that supports this program so whole-heartedly!

Hospital Visit

Went to St. John's to visit a young woman who OD'd on heroin last night. She was still passed out. Or had passed into deep sleep again, as I gather she was briefly semi-lucid early this morning.

I went back later, hoping this time she'd be awake. No luck. The nurse looked at me darkly and asked if I was a boyfriend. Note her use of the word "a" instead of "the". I shuddered and held up my left hand said, "Just a family friend".

Well, true enough.

No, not her, I googled "young woman ICU" and it had this.
Good resemblance, though.

For years I've known her mom, who's also a heroin addict. I used to visit the mom in prison, and encourage her to take prison as a "head start" on being clean and sober and not to relapse when she got out.

She relapsed when she got out.

Both her daughters have been hooked on heroin. Bizarrely, the mother introduced it to each of them, why I still have no clue. I doubt she does either.

The one daughter finally got on methadone. I do not find that to be ideal, for a variety of reasons I've mentioned elsewhere, but I suppose it is better than a sharp needle in the vein.

Then there's the one I visited in the hospital, who still uses.

The mom had attempted to brag that she had been the one who went that "extra mile" in calling for the ambulance. As I pointed out to the older sister, it's a weird brag when a mom basically admits she was still doing drugs with her 20 something daughter.

Not that the mother hung around for the ambulance. But as she put it, "I left her at Jamal's (a liquor/convenience store), there's always people there." True enough. There are. But not exactly the types I'd want to leave a comatose daughter with.

I've learned over the years that trying to get anyone off of drugs is a years long process. And one that you can't do for them, you can only try and encourage them to do it. Then if you happen to be present when they decide to succeed, you can kid yourself that you did something. *rueful chuckle*

And if you happen to be there when they OD or die, then you can feel like you failed them.

Rehab Visit

I went to the rehab place yesterday, a bit sad that I was missing out on the church potluck. But the guy who had presided over the drug house I used to visit had said that there was some kind of orientation I had to go through first in order to visit him.

I was wondering as I drove over, "Why are they making a visitor go to such trouble?" When I got there, I learned why.

It was an orientation for the family members of the addicts in there. I was with a bunch of mothers - and one pregnant girlfriend - of all the addicts in there. Moms - and I suppose a pregnant girlfriend - being the only ones not to give up on these addicts.

Then me. With my fifty something free lance pharmacist who'd finally got help years later than me!

There's a lot of mixed feelings to that. Honored. Cautious about what this will now begin to entail. But also saddened. I suppose I'm a nice enough guy, I just feel a bit damp eyed at the idea that I might be all a person has. Because I'm not really much in the big scheme of things.

Certainly a mom would have been better.

It reminded me of an odd evening in Fairbanks, Alaska, a bit over 20 years ago. Looking back on it, it was almost a sign of who I would eventually grow to be. I was a liquor store clerk and not even an active addict yet, being a 20 something young man. A young man who still knew everything.

I worked for Loomis/Fargo, an armed guard driving the big armored trucks, hauling money and gold. But I moonlighted, as did a fellow security buddy, at Thrifty Liquor, the seediest dive of a liquor store in Fairbanks.

Which is saying a lot.

We'd get a lot of street riff-raff in. Druggies, alkies, dealers, pimps, and the working girls themselves. You know, to warm up, it being Fairbanks, Alaska. Street girls in Alaska have a hard time dressing sexy with all the layers and parkas, but somehow they manage to convey what they are.

Some clerks and people in general enjoy giving such types a lot of grief. Me, I'm always the same politeness level whether it's a King or Commoner, President or Pauper. I blame my British upbringing!

But what I didn't realize - not at that age - was that some of them had never been treated politely by a clean cut young guy in their life. Not one who didn't want anything, anyway.

I enjoyed that job, though, and would swap banter with each customer, making a game of being able to chat whether it was a Professor from UAF - yeah, he came each week - or the least overaged working gal.

Then I got a call on the phone one day.

Me: Thrifty Liquor, may I help you please?

*you are receiving a call from an inmate from the Fairbanks Northstar Borough Corrections hit 1 etc.*

I thought, great, wrong number, well, I'll accept and let them know.

*pushes 1*

Woman's voice: Oh, thank you, is this Dean?

Me: Yes? May I help you?

Sheila: (not her real name) This is Sheila, you know who I am?

Me: Yes, yes, I do. You okay?

Understand I'm still ringing up customers with the phone between my ear and shoulder - remember when holding a landline phone between ear and shoulder was still a thing?

Sheila: I'm in trouble. They arrested me for killing my friend.

Me: (Somewhat puzzled) Who are you trying to reach?

Sheila: I only get one call. I don't know anyone else to call.

I was pretty young then, hadn't had a lot of what happened to me later happen, and was stunned.

The whole world, and the only "friend" this poor woman had was her friendly neighborhood liquor store clerk. This is the worst moment of her life, when she is in the gravest of danger and in the most need of help, and...me?

Me: I'm at work right now. I'll come by tomorrow. Have you answered any questions or told them anything?

Sheila: No! Thank you! You can come in the afternoon!

Me: You must not answer any questions or say anything at all to the police. You must not tell anyone in the jail, even another inmate your story or what you think happened.

Sheila: Okay! But they haven't read me my rights! Will they give me a lawyer?

Me: No lawyer for awhile. And they don't have to read you your rights unless they want to question you. But you must say nothing till you get that lawyer. Just sit tight, we'll talk more tomorrow.

Goodbyes exchanged.

I'm still ringing up customers. My buddy Hugh looks over at me to see if all is okay. He and I haul money during the day and whichever of us is working, the other usually comes in to aid whether we're on the clock or not.

I just say, "Crazy - I'll tell you later."

Why had I gave her all that sterile legal advice? Well, for one, that's actually great advice, I was a veteran law enforcement officer from my Air Force days which were a lot nearer then than now. And I know that if you talk or answer questions, you're in big trouble if you did it, and worse if you did not!

But honestly, I gave her that advice because I could not think of anything else to say.

I didn't have the words of comfort to share with her. Words she probably needed. Words I failed to give, as I did not have them the next day either. I just had not had enough go wrong in my life to know what it might have helped her to hear.

I had that one visit, re-affirmed what I had said, reviewed with her the things that were coming up so she would not be surprised. Better than nothing, I suppose. But I'd have said the right words if I knew them.

I felt inexpressibly sad over it back then, though as I was very young, I tried to cover my feelings with humor. As I told my roommate, "If I'm the only one you have to call on a murder charge, mistakes have been made!"

He laughed, and I laughed. It was true, though. True then, and while I'm not too down on myself, I'd say true now. If your liquor store clerk or your program supervisor is the only guy you can call, then yeah, sure, that's a great indicator that some bad lifestyle choices have been made.

I didn't go back for a second visit. She knew I had been uncomfortable. I will be going back for a second visit - and more - with the guy I'm seeing in rehab now. What were the words of comfort that I know now, but had not known then?

What did the alcoholism and addiction inflicted upon a young cocky know-it-all who was all about status and materiality teach?

The words that she needed to hear 20 years ago, and that the guy I visited today also needed to hear were, "Don't worry, it's going to be okay. We'll get through this."

That's it. The key word is "we". Nothing more than that. But one additional thing is needed.

You must then really be there. That's the harder part. But if you can be there, and you can show them that you really want to be there and really mean it, then it will help. It's no magic cure-all, but if there is then hope, it will maximize the chances of success. And in the world of addiction - or the world of lousy luck in general - maximizing chances of success is as good as it ever gets.

I wish I had known that for that woman back then. Oh, yeah, sure, she did it. But I'm a firm believer that everyone deserves an advocate. There's never any shortage of those to say that someone sucks. Always nice to have at least one person to say, "Well, gee, he/she isn't all bad, maybe if we heard their side..." I didn't know it back then. In another article, I said once that maybe in some ways me being hit by alcoholism was a beneficial thing, for it turned me off of a very pride-filled course and got me less me-centered. I had always had empathy, I had empathy for that woman back then.

But I hadn't made it my chief concern. And I hadn't learned what needed to be done.

You Never Know

Our church was doing it's food ministry a couple of weeks ago, giving out bag lunches and water to the homeless, and I was passing out some cards for 490 Outreach, when we met a man named, well, let us say "Tommy".  He was in his thirties, clean cut, and needed a sober living home.  

I heard from him later that week, and we got him all moved in.  He came in with me on a Sunday to help build a food pantry for our church.  He got a job with a roofing crew.  All was going well.  This was sure fire success, a man who simply needed a hand up (not a hand out!) and he'd be back on track in no time!

Then the next day, he overslept and missed the pick up for the workers.  He passed that off by telling me that they were all doing meth on that crew, so I let that pass.  It's possible.  Certainly there are no shortage of meth fueled roofing crews, as many home owners in Springfield have sadly learned.  

I reminded him that one of the guys at church had spoke of a job possibility that was out of town.  I suggested that maybe at the Wednesday evening Bible Study he could attend with me and we could check into that.  True, he had no car, but I told him that I'd be willing to drive him there and back for the first week till he could find a regular ride.

He agreed.  Possibly, in retrospect, as he'd not paid yet and felt vulnerable.  If so, that's a pity, because no one was trying to make anyone go anywhere.  In any case, his mom wired him some money, and after I took him to get it, he paid me, then texted me an hour later saying he wasn't up for going to meet that guy at church, but that I could ask him if I wanted.

Well...I had earlier given him the "if you do right things, right things happen" talk, and was really kind of hoping he'd go talk to the guy himself.  Understand, it's not like I don't want a help a person whether they are going to church or not, most do not go to church at all, and I help them plenty.  It's what we do.

But I was a bit nervous about recommending a person for a job when he'd already overslept one and could not be bothered - on a day that was totally work free and open - to go to church and ask a guy about a good job opportunity.  I felt apprehension.  

And justly so.  He spent the following day watching TV all day - Montel, Maury, Price is Right, all the crap on the no pay channels.  Meanwhile I have another guest who is tied to the place by ankle monitor and wishes he had the freedom to leave that Tommy sitting there on the couch was squandering.  

Then Tommy got his paycheck for that one day of work, and packed his stuff quietly, what little there was of it, and without a word to me or anyone, left.  His roommate learned by seeing the empty side of the room.  I learned from that roommate.  Given the timing of "just got $70 to $80 in pay" and "moved out in time for Friday evening" I have my suspicions.  

And that's a real shame.  I'd really thought at first he had a real chance.  

Which just goes to show that when it comes to people, you just never know.  We've aided over sixty people in the past three years here.  And given that we're a faith based outreach (Seventh-day Adventism) we not only desire their sobriety, but we'd enjoy seeing them develop habits of church, too!

But if our percent of success rate in the field of sobriety is only around 15 to 20 percent, I'd say our ability to encourage some to come to church is far worse.  Still, if nothing else we're planting seeds that may one day come to fruition.

Take for instance a man I'll called "Danny" who I know as he ran the drug house I used to go to if I was a of a mind to use drugs.  I was never the type of active user of drugs that they portray in movies, some people's rock bottoms are higher or lower than other people's.  I never was a daily user, or even a weekly or monthly user.  "Just" (dangerous word!) here and there, now and then.

But I knew where to get it.  Danny's house.

Understand, he was not the dealer.  He was an active and daily user, though.  For years and years after I stopped doing any drugs or drinking at all, I'd still go by and see him.  Those houses are not the dens of violence and danger that movies make out, it's quite possible to stop by and sit on the porch or in the living room and chat.  And they all knew I was "cool", that is, that I was not there to get anyone in trouble.

For all those years, I've been trying to persuade him to stop.  His drinking and drugging were FAR in excess of anything I've ever done.  He had his esophagus burst from over drinking.  I didn't even know that was a thing.

There was no hope, at his age (fifties) and for as long as he'd been at it, and for as successful as he was at acquiring it, that he'd ever stop.

Yet last week he did.  Three days after I had caught him at the Breadline and gave him the old "talk" again.  He finally checked himself into a local rehab.  I am, in fact, going to be visiting him today.  One of the lesser known duties of a program supervisor is the visiting of those in jail or rehab or the hospital to boost their spirits.  Often I will be the only one who will visit them, family and former friends having gave up on them.

It's too soon to tell, of course.  There's a long road ahead of him, even after the month or so of rehab. But I'd have never thought I'd have lived to see him check himself in - I had in fact thought I'd likely be the only to talk at his funeral.  So there's that.

You just never know.  You hope for the best each time.  Most of the time your hope is dashed.  Then you hope again, just as much, the next time.  With the next person - or the same person again.

And each time, you must try mightily, because you never know which will be the time it works.