The Hunger Volunteer

In the early nineties, I spent two weeks at an acquaintance’s home in New York. She was a devout and fairly well-off woman of pre-retirement age who worked as a management consultant at a large company. She told me that every Sunday she and her friends did charity work and invited me to join them. I gladly agreed.

Getting up early and drinking, as was customary in that house, a glass of orange juice instead of breakfast, we left the house at seven. We arrived at some building in the New York suburbs. Around eight in the morning, about twelve of us volunteers had gathered. Judging by their appearance and manners, these were people of means. Voluntary assistance to those in need is considered a noble cause and is fairly widespread among Americans with middle and higher incomes.

Our task was to feed the homeless, unemployed, and all those in need with a free Sunday lunch. We started by cleaning a room that looked like a gym. Then tables and chairs, kitchen and dining supplies, and food were brought in. We worked hard, without breaks, without unnecessary conversation. Everyone was united by a sense of high mission. My only problem was that I was hungry.

By around noon, the preparations were complete. People for whom the food was intended began lining up outside the building. Many of them were dressed in rags and looked, to put it mildly, not great. Apparently, these people came here every Sunday.

Finally, at twelve-thirty we let the first group into the room. Our clients sat at the tables, and we brought them food, drinks, and dessert on trays. The quality of the food seemed decent – at least I, experiencing an ever-growing sense of hunger, wouldn’t have refused to try what I was handing out. But alas, we had no time for that: people kept coming and coming, and we could barely keep up serving them.

It was exactly two o’clock when I finally decided to approach one guy – a Chinese or Korean American I’d already exchanged a few words with:

“Let’s have lunch ourselves – I’m really hungry!”

I still remember the harsh and contemptuous look I received for my words.

“We didn’t come here to eat, but to feed those in need!” I heard.

My companion suddenly reminded me of a red commissar from the time of the great famine. Oh, if only he knew that I needed lunch then no less than those we were feeding!

What could I do – charity is charity. And I, despite my growing hunger and fatigue, continued my heroic efforts at delivering food.

“Hey, over here! Give me another portion of steak, and more potatoes!” someone in a torn sweater called out to me.

I’d barely brought the order when I heard another voice:

“Coffee! Quickly!” A bearded man in a worn cap was asking for a refill before he’d even finished his coffee in a paper cup.

I desperately wanted coffee myself, but suppressing my feelings, I ran to fulfill the client’s wish.

It was three o’clock when I couldn’t take it anymore: picking up a tray, I resolutely approached the serving area and asked for food for myself.

“We don’t have anything left,” came the response.

The clients dispersed, and we began cleaning the room, taking out trash, and sending back the tables, chairs, and other things we’d brought. By five in the evening, the work was done. Looking at my fellow volunteers, I noticed they were satisfied, joking, laughing. By tradition, they were planning to go to a restaurant and invited me to join. I doubted I could afford it, but just in case, I asked which restaurant. Hearing the name, I realized they meant an expensive New York restaurant where dinner would have cost me at least a hundred dollars.

“Oh, what a shame – I have a meeting scheduled somewhere else, otherwise I’ve been wanting to go there for a long time,” I assured my new friends.

They, for their part, expressed regret and hope to see me the following Sunday.

Having reached downtown New York, we said warm goodbyes: they headed toward the restaurant, and I headed to the nearest kiosk to buy a dollar bag of potato chips for dinner.

At the time, I felt I was the unluckiest person in this story. The homeless got a quality free lunch. The wealthy volunteers got their satisfaction from socially useful activity, a sense of duty fulfilled, and a joint dinner at an exclusive restaurant. Meanwhile, I learned a curious aspect of American life, but I was damn tired from a full day of uninteresting labor and tormented by hunger.

Now, with the passage of time, I believe I was very lucky. I understand that I really was helping those in need. Of course, it would have been better if I could have shown greater tolerance and less irritability, perceiving the situation as a chance for self-development, training in inner discipline, and spiritual growth. But life never stops providing chances for self-improvement. As Nietzsche said, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. At least, it can…

First published on my Substack: https://alisherfaizullaev.substack.com/p/the-hunger-volunteer

#Volunteering #NewYork or #NYC #PersonalEssay #Charity