I had no idea St. Anthony’s helped so many different types of people! I find I am a bit disappointed when I am told to report to the old folk’s home instead of the children’s center. I mean, I am thrilled to help wherever I am needed…obviously! I just somehow imagined myself making a difference in…you know…a child’s life (Leigh Anne Tuohy again). I would support him (I guess it could be “her” but “her” would probably want to borrow my clothes, make-up…SHOES!) in a loving but firm way. I would always expect the best from him and years later, when he’s graduating from Harvard Medical School giving his Valedictory Acceptance Speech (do they have valedictorians at Harvard Medical School?) he will say (tears in his eyes) that I was tough but always fair, and he owes everything he is today to m….oops! I stumble over someone taking a nap on the sidewalk and realize I haven’t heard a word Micki is saying about the fortitude and community spirit running through veins of the people of the Tenderloin. I really must concentrate! I don’t want to appear flaky on our Day of Service.
I get serious and shift my thinking from Child-Service to Aged-Service. It is probably for the best. I know, through first-hand experience from my own unappreciative brood, children are not always as grateful as one would like. An aged person however, is experienced enough to know how lucky they are when one bestows aid upon them. I enter the Madonna Residence oozing with altruism and ready to give my all to the old dears.
The first thing I notice when I see these “old dears” is how…well, how Asian they are. Every single one! Also, as opposed to quietly sitting in their wheel chairs, knitting or sprawled out with blank expressions on their faces, they seem super fit and alert. A few are in a corner doing Tai Chi, others are playing a really complicated-looking math/number/strategy type game (I feel a bit nervous at this) and, ah yes, there they are, the one or two white people, sitting in their wheel chairs, lolling about with rather sweet, simple expressions on their faces…doing aaaabsolutely nothing at all. I feel just a little embarrassed for us.
The head of the Madonna Residence (Asian) greets us and gives us a few instructions. “Now, how many of you speak another language?)" he briskly asks. Five hands shoot up leaving me and an Irish-looking boy, hands glued by our sides, feeling rather inadequate. The Head asks each (Asian) child what language(s) they speak. “Tagalog!” “Cantonese!” “Mandarin and Cantonese!!” “Mandarin and Cantonese with a working knowledge of Japanese!” “Me too!” Paddy O’Shanohan and I stand there, trying to look intelligent, but managing only to appear rather dimwitted. I adamantly refuse to look at the old white people in their wheel chairs not wanting to emphasize the association.
The languages-speaking crew is shipped off to do some heavy-duty work in the field, while the Head turns to Paddy and me. We look at him expectantly, he sighs and thrusts a board game in each of our hands. “Why don’t you two try to play some games with the residents,” he suggests, stopping short of patting us on our heads. Clearly wanting to distance himself from me, (and not have to play that scary game) Paddy hightails it to the sweet simple dears in the wheelchairs. I am left standing alone in the middle of the room trying to avoid eye-contact with the two women quietly sipping tea. They look as if they would like nothing better than to dive right into some mathematical strategy and keep pointedly eyeing the box in my hands. Finally, there is nothing for it but to walk over. “Good morning!” I greet them brightly. “Would either of you like to play th…” one of them snatches the box out of my hand and the other one shoves a chair underneath me. They both start explaining the rules of the game, very loudly, in Cantonese (possibly Mandarin). I try to feel superior what with my working knowledge of English, but it is hard to do with them screaming in laughter at every errant move I make. And if that Paddy O’Shanahan doesn’t stop smirking at me I might just go over and wring his cowardly little neck!
By the time my shift is up I am shattered. I have played 50 matches of this horrifying math game, and I have lost 50 matches of this horrifying math game…by a wide margin judging by the roaring and back-slapping crowd that gathered to watch. Micki and I meet up on the sidewalk once again. She is pale and is holding her hand to her mouth. I rush to her and ask what in the world has happened! She can barely speak but finally manages to relay that she was put to work in the Dining Hall. “No!” I scream. Micki has had nothing but organic, sustainable, glass stored, gluten-free, slow-cooked food pass her lips since the 90’s. I know how traumatic this must have been for her since one of the rules of the Dining Hall is one must eat as well as serve the food that has been prepared so as not to appear snobby.
The ride home is taken in silence. I eat some crackers from my earth-quake preparedness bag while Micki uses my Colgate mini-toothbrush with freshening bead to get the taste of the pork and beans out of her mouth. When I finally arrive home I drop all my bags and start upstairs, desperate for a bath and a cup of tea. Youngest hears me and comes running from the playroom yelling, “Mommy, Mommy! Don't forget you said you would play Connect Four with me! Remember! I’m about to beat my record of whipping you 15 times in a row!” No one can understand why I suddenly burst into tears
