This summer I am spending time working with the Atlanta Community Food Bank through a program with Notre Dame’s Center for Social Concerns called the Summer Service Learning Program, or SSLP. So far, I have assisted the education and outreach department at the food bank as well as worked with various partner agencies which directly interact with people in need. A lot of people ask me why I am here. They want to know how an Indiana college student ended up in the city of Atlanta, unloading a truckload of food or listening to someone recount the circumstances which have caused her to be in need of help with obtaining clothes for her granddaughter.
It took me a couple tries to figure out how to respond. I fumbled with brief explanations of the SSLP program, loose tie-ins with my course of study, and casual deflections of any particular explanation for my presence. I wanted an answer that could logically explain my presence while portraying more solidarity than difference with the people whom I was serving. However, it is tricky because I know that I am an outsider to people’s lives here in many senses. I’m not from the area. This isn’t usually my job. Even the fact that I have the luxury of “service learning” for the summer instead of working three jobs to try to make ends meet highlights the chasm of difference in privilege between me and the majority of those whom I am supposed to be serving. And I know that there are a lot of experiences which I do not understand, simply because I have not lived them. So how do I begin to serve? How can I make a positive difference in the lives of the struggling residents of Atlanta while respecting their stories and their dignity? How do I find solidarity which unites us?
It begins with learning, and that is what I have decided to tell people when they ask why I am here.
My experiences this summer have convinced me of the irrevocable tie between learning and compassion. It is one thing to be passionate about fighting hunger and poverty. It is another to have true compassion for those who are affected by it. From the text of Compassion by Donald McNeill, compassion “requires us to unmask the illusion of our competitive selfhood, to give up clinging to our imaginary distinctions as sources of identity.” It can be scary because it is deeply personal. Compassionate care crosses the line between what you do and who you are. You must ground yourself in solidarity with those whom you are serving. You hurt with each other and fight for each other.
Last week, I was working at an assistance center which provides help with groceries, rent, utilities, work attire, and transportation. I saw a client for an appointment regarding food assistance. We’ll call her Jean*. She works as a nurse’s aide for an elderly woman with dementia and has four kids, but recently stopped receiving child support. While she was filling out a form indicating which food items she was most in need of, we chatted about her kids. We laughed about how the eleven year old and ten year old fight about everything from who has to sweep the kitchen to who gets to put ketchup on the hot dogs. I told her about the epic disagreement amongst my siblings about who has to do the dreaded loading of the dishwasher. When Jean was finished with the list, she handed it to me and said, “Thank you so much for doing this, my kids will be so happy.” As I filled a few bags of groceries with the items she had selected, I thought about the excitement of my sister when my mom brings fruit snacks and chocolate-pretzel “granola” bars from the grocery store.
For all the sameness between Jean's family and mine, the most poignant difference was that they struggled with poverty in a way that my family had not. So here I am, a Minnesotan from Notre Dame, in Atlanta, learning about what it means to be unable to stretch food stamps far enough because the priority has become getting the rent in on time so that a family of five can avoid homelessness. This is a real experience. This is not something that happens extraneous to my existence; no, it is happening right alongside it. How am I going to care for the experience of Jean and her kids? I have learned from what she has told me, and now it is time to be compassionate. It is time to be there with her and to be there for her. The life of each person most definitely matters and all are deserving of compassion. It is no longer enough to know what I do not know about the experiences of others; I must learn, and I must act compassionately. Tim McGraw’s “Words are Medicine” says it well: "We’re just a different kind of the same / Sticks and stones can break you / But words are medicine.” Learning is medicine.
*name has been changed
Natalie Boyce is a sophomore studying theology and pre-health and is interested in pursuing a career in medicine.
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