Essays

I am sitting here, eating cherries. At $4.99 per pound or more, they are a luxury. But I like cherries, as much as I do avocados, broccoli, watermelon and sweet corn. Which is to say, I eat a lot of produce. Always have. Was raised that way. My parents always served vegetables with dinner, and gave us apples and pears to snack on, and so, having been introduced to fresh produce at the beginning stage of my culinary adventures, I now find it completely natural to sauté spinach, stir fry peppers and produce my own guacamole. I am blessed to be able to afford not only the ingredients, but a place to live and cook as well. But right now, it’s cherries which are on my mind.

You see, I have not eaten cherries in quite some time, at least a few of years. The season is short and normally I am almost always the first in line when they hit the supermarkets and green grocers. But since 2006, I have abstained from even looking at them, or even eating them at someone else’s home. The reason was, I was emotionally unable to do so.

In 2005, I was living in New Mexico, on the Navajo Nation, the country’s largest American Indian reservation. Covering over 26,000 square miles of territory in New Mexico, Arizona and Utah, it is a vast expanse of natural beauty and human suffering. The people, called Diné in the Navajo language, are a proud, living example of both American history as well as centuries of official, government racism and degradation. Rife with poverty, alcoholism and drug abuse, one might expect to find nothing but hopelessness. Yet, in the sometimes squalid surroundings of tarpaper shacks which may lack running water, electricity or both, the people still find light within their lives, through their heritage and their spirituality. They gather together for bingo, church or dinner, speak their indigenous dialects, and revel in their oneness, talking openly and lovingly about everything from family to recipes to whatever comes to mind.

One Saturday, I was invited to drive into Gallup, the nearest city, by a man who does charity work the way the rest of breathe, without even giving it a second thought. He is not a clergyman, but the sisters of the Missionaries of Charity – founded by Blessed (Mother) Teresa of Calcutta – call him Brother nonetheless. Here, at this combination homeless shelter-soup kitchen, while he doled out charity in the form of hats and gloves, I experienced such utter dismay as I had not known previously. Men and women of all ages lined up for the late afternoon meal, some drunk, others high on glue or pretty much anything they could scrounge, almost all of them American Indians. The city of Gallup lies astride Interstate-40, and its boundaries encompass several nations of American Indians, with the Navajo being the most prominent in terms of population. And most of these people, sadly, were Navajo.

With Indians being particularly sensitive to the ravages of alcohol and substance abuse, the vast majority of visitors to the soup kitchen in Gallup are down and out American Indians, whose hope vanishes daily amidst 40-ounce malt liquor bottles, or tubes of epoxy resin. They line up outside the Sisters’ door several minutes ahead of the scheduled opening. Many, if not most, seem to know one another, or maybe it’s just the camaraderie that appears among those who are similarly afflicted. The smell of this segment of humanity, should one get close enough, can be staggering in the warmer months. For those living on the street, hygiene is a vague notion, not a way of life. They toothlessly smile, call you brother or sister and mindlessly invoke God’s blessings for any kindness shown them or requested. While the adults, who make up the vast majority of clients, give one pause, it is the children, brought in by their mothers – fathers never appear with their families – who pull at the heartstrings. I worked one Christmas day, when ‘dinner’ was served at 12:30 pm, and the several children present received gifts cobbled together by the volunteers who had begged them from local merchants.

In the early days of my volunteerism at the kitchen, the Sisters would routinely ask me what I wanted to do, to which I always replied, “Whatever you need.” I had no qualms about washing pots, stacking trays or slicing produce. However, from day one, I noticed that almost all of the food being served was, in someway or another, ‘damaged’, that is, it had sat on shelves way too long, or, in some very unfortunate cases, in dumpsters, from which enterprising angels had rescued it and brought the dented cans, crushed boxes and bags to the kitchen. On more than one occasion I threw away more than I saved while preparing moldy broccoli, rotten pears, and fungus-laden carrots. But it was the cherries that finally got to me.

Several times, the nuns have asked me to lead the requisite prayer service, prior to the meal being served. I have always demurred. I am not an orator, and besides, I know these people as well, if not better than the Sisters do. They file into the chapel, because they know that’s their meal ticket. Spirituality and an empty stomach are quite mutually exclusive. Then there was the time when I was the only volunteer to show up, male or female. After dinner, a young nun shyly, and perhaps slyly as well, asked me if I wanted to see the shelter part of the building, as I had never left the confines of the kitchen and dining area. I followed her to a large dormitory, almost prison-like, with a big, double-paned, wire-enmeshed window, and stacks of blankets and linens. In her curt East Indian accent – the sisters come from all over Asia and Africa, but there are Americans, too - she told me I needed to “pat down the guys”. I think it was after the fifth time I asked her to repeat what she was telling me that she explained: the nuns will not touch men, or women, for that matter, and, if there is no pat down for drugs, alcohol and weapons, there will be no beds given out for the evening. Some choice.

Now, no matter how many times you watch COPS, or see it done in the movies, a pat down is basically dangerous, degrading and a waste of time. Dangerous because I don’t need to injure myself on someone’s daily fix, or to be punched because I found it. Degrading because most, if not all of these pitiable men, want only a place to call home for several hours, and the nuns, in the guise of a body search, are telling them, “We do not trust you.” Which, unfortunately, they don’t, and have no reason to, given the illegal substances and weapons which are found on a regular basis. And, finally, a waste of time, because if someone wants badly enough to hide something… well, you get the idea. So, I did my duty. After all, what is the sense of volunteering if you don’t want to get your hands dirty, literally? I wasn’t there to meet people on the social register.

The next day, I came down with such a fever, chills and I don’t know what else, because basically I was drugged into submission. The cause? The emergency room doctor, after listening to my previous night’s activity, diagnosed something just short of sepsis. This was filth at its height. My friend, who had introduced me to the kitchen told the nuns of my condition and they prayed for me, which, as it turns out, helped more than the medication did, I’m convinced. I was back there two weeks later, with an ecclesial promise of no more close body contact, with anyone. The promise, however, did not extend to anything gross and disgusting, just people. The food, it turns out, would still have to be prepared, no matter its condition. And so…

I arrived early that Saturday afternoon, and rang the well-hidden buzzer. Sister D. opened the door, beaming when she saw it was me. “We have lots of work today,” she said in her lilting, West African inflection, adding that she hoped I was better. I went inside, took off my jacket and donned a well-worn, formerly blue apron, whose raggedy strings made tying it all but impossible. So I drew the frayed ends through my belt loops, and secured them with electrical tape. I emerged from the utility room, hands freshly washed, ready to serve the masses. Sister J. was waiting for me, at the big, double sink, with a twenty-pound bag of what can only charitably be called cherries, or, perhaps, former cherries. I had never before seen a more disgusting mass of rot parading as food, in a licensed kitchen. Over the years, I have cooked professionally, and I take pride in using all my senses in the kitchen, most of all smell to detect even the barest whiff of rancidness. This glop, I could have smelled in the next county. And I, like many, if not most native-born white Americans waste more food than I should. But this… this was beyond the pale. This was downright hideous. “Take out the good ones, ok?” Sister J. instructed me. I can honestly say that I now know the feeling experienced by police officers who, having waited for the peristaltic outcome of swallowed contraband to produce its desired end result, must wade through that product. This was nasty, hideous and people were supposed to eat what emerged from this tub of swill. So I did the most natural thing I could think of: I plunged right in, up to my elbows in red sluice.

At first, I tried my best not think about what I was doing. Yet I did need to actually eye the stuff I was discerning to be edible or not, but in reality, I tried my best to focus on anything else. I was gathering up handfuls of fruit slop, which turned out to be pits and stems, the pulp having fallen away en route to the faucet. While I was retrieving about one good cherry in ten, or maybe even a lesser percentage, it wasn’t until I saw the green mold that I shuddered. I have cleaned chickens and butchered meat, beheaded and eviscerated fish and shrimp, but this, this was truly beyond disgusting. I gagged. And gagged again. And then, I had enough. Sister J. knew when to throw in the towel. She approached and said, “I guess they are not very good.” I agreed with her, and she said it was enough, to throw out the rest. Later on, during the meal, which I helped serve, I do not recall seeing even the ‘good’ cherries on the counter. I supposed that to mean that even Sister had second thoughts about doling out charity at its worst. I did not look at, purchase or eat cherries for a long time after that. As I said, I was emotionally unable to do so. I recalled the story told to me by Franciscan friars, when I was first introduced to St. Francis. They related that on his very first night after having left his father’s home, he begged food from several houses. He was rewarded with scraps and leftovers, which he eyed with more than a little revulsion. After all, he had been raised in luxury, and there was no advanced technology in the thirteenth century, such as refrigerators. He gulped down the meager odds and ends, fed his body, but realized a greater love than he had known. I wanted to feel that strength, and through prayer, I now do.

When I think back on that event, and it is often, I pray a small thanksgiving to God for all that I have, all that He has provided me. And when confronted with someone whining about the smallest of life’s problems, I want to ask them, “Is this really that important?” Things like their favorite restaurant being out of ‘their’ brand of soda. Or the hottest new sandals not being available in their favorite color. People of all ages, colors and ethnicities all suffer from the same disease: Want, instead of Need, and never, Appreciation. For the most part, people do not take the time to actually reflect on how good they have it. Gas prices are sky-high? Think about the homeless, and working poor with no transportation at all, or even the money to ride mass transit. Name brand foods too expensive? How about parents and senior citizens, trying to decide whether to purchase food or gas, and those who must eat at soup kitchens or shelters every night. Sometimes, that is the only meal they will eat that day. And when the provider is closed, then where will they get their meal? Everybody, but young people especially, need to spend at least one shift working at such a place. Then, the next time their favorite TV show is pre-empted, they might have some perspective.

Humans tend to compartmentalize, and certain off-putting events and situations may be neatly placed in the back of the brain, behind the childhood memories, alongside the remembrances of boot camp and wisdom teeth extraction. And every once in a while, when a smell, or a song or someone just whistling on the street stirs up the emotional miasma, we can stop, breathe deeply and pretend we are okay. Which, in fact, we are, as long as we have faith. So, as I reside here in my warm, dry, quiet apartment, earning a living while sitting comfortably, with two computers in front of me, a crock pot full of warm, aromatic goodness nearby, and a well-stocked refrigerator as well, I thank God, out loud, for my life and all the good things with which I am blessed: financial resources, good health, love. And cherries.