When social work doesn’t work…
It starts when an old woman’s daughter calls to beg for an A/C unit for her mother.
“Please, it is so hot in her house.”
I heard her break to take a drag on her cigarette.
“We just don’t have the extra money for anything like that,” she continued.
Their very understanding social worker, nodded on the other end of the phone, “Yes, that is a problem.”
I filled with a sense of false self-importance and knew the exactly what to do. I quickly completed an application for the program without the need to exaggerate the situation. The truth of this woman’s life was desperate enough to garner the sympathy and thereby assistance requested.
Surprisingly soon after the app was submitted, the woman was approved for cool air. As a privilege and a right to decent living conditions as a human, or out of pity for her poverty and poor health doesn’t really matter, right?
In any case, I mustered the strength to get the A/C into my car, with the help of a co-worker, and headed off into the heart of darkness to make my special delivery.
When I pulled up in front of the shanty house, it occurred to me that they might not have the electrical wiring to support the efficient energy burning machine in my backseat. It appeared that they didn’t have window screens, collars for their dogs or a mower to cut the grass. I guessed that a good socket might be a stretch. Nonetheless, I continued with my mission as I had an old lady to save.
Three women sat heavily on a sagging wooden porch. They stared dumbly ahead until I hopped out of my car. Then their looks turned to that of suspicion even though I called to confirm the delivery just 24 hours earlier.
“Hey there, ladies. I’ve brought you something to cool off. I just need a little help getting it inside.”
The woman I was there to save continued to stare ahead, uninterested in my business of her rescue. Her silver braids shone in the sun as she looked over the cracked and empty parking lot across the street. Weeds and broken bottles were more interesting than the possibility of a room cooled to 72 degrees.
A massive woman sat next to her and yelled out, “Well, what you waiting for? Bring it in already.”
She looked like she was about to drown in the sweat as it pooled in the roll around her neck. Her face and arms were slick with sweat, yet she sat amazingly motionless. She was a mound of melting human, forgettable as she was unhelpful.
“Listen, I need some help. Can someone come down here and give me a hand?” I directed the question to the only capable body, the third woman who sat on an upturned paint bucket.
She picked up the hint and was the only one to respond.
“Why you axin’? Is it heavy or somethin’?”
No, I just want you to experience the good feelings generated from team work, I thought.
“Yes it’s heavy, and I can’t lift it alone.”
Begrudgingly, the youngest woman shuffled down to help. We managed to get the A/C inside once we cautiously stepped over the old woman’s swollen feet. She couldn’t see the need to move her feet for our safe passage. After all, she was there first.
The woman led me inside towards the nearest open window and dropped her end of the box.
“There, you can set it up here,” she declared and turned to go back outside.
So I showed myself to the door after her and left.
Nothing was said when I left. The massive woman looked disappointed that I didn’t set up the unit and the youngest woman was dismayed that she may be tasked with the difficult chore of reading directions and setting the A/C up herself. Meanwhile, the woman with the silver braids stared straight ahead, indifferent to world around her. She didn’t mind the heat and never asked for the A/C. Why should she be grateful for something that she never wanted?
I’d like to make the excuse for her that she was tired of accepting charity and even more tired of living in poverty. Her soul was worn and weary from never having enough or any way to get it aside from the kindness of strangers.
My only regret is that I didn’t drag the A/C back out of that disgusting house that smelled of wet dog and flea killing powder, around the old woman’s legs, over the broken boards of the porch and back to my car for someone who does want it and would appreciate it.
What is gratitude in the face of charity? What is anything in the face of charity, other than a sad state of affairs, to everyone but the giver? In spite of this, I’m still secretly holding out for a little thank you card in the mail. Its a silly and selfish wish, but what can I say, I’m just a little human?