The Friendship House

THE FRIENDSHIP HOUSE
Wilmington, DE
January 2011

What has the queen of England ever done to warrant her good fortune of wealth, fame and freedom from financial worries? The only true claim to fame is that she was born to the right family.  This was just the luck of the draw.

So was I.  I was born to the right family.  This good fortune has enabled me to live in an emotionally happy family; become well educated and feel loved: three great commodities to a successful life. And I have always recognized that not everyone is so fortunate.

 I recently  volunteered my time at the Friendship House. Among a variety of services provided, this organization collects clothing from middle class people and give them to poor people.

 I gathered a few pieces of clothing, from my pile of clothes, and took my meager offering to the warehouse.  Once inside the warehouse, my things were quickly taken from me and I was given a receipt for tax purposes and then quickly dismissed.  When I informed the woman that I wanted to volunteer a few hours of my time, she was taken aback.   She insisted that I sign in and designate my affiliated organization. I told her that I was here just as a volunteer off the street.  I had no affiliation.

“Oh yea, we got some of those from time to time. Your section is at the back of the book.  Sign here.”  So I added my name to the three other women who have volunteered their time this month.

Karen seems to be in charge that day.  She knows the routines and she assigned tasks to everyone.

“Well, ok.  You can hang things.”

 I was assigned my task and given my tools:  marker, tape and two types of hangers.  Quick instructions were given and then I was left to my own. But quite frankly, a whole lot of instruction is really not needed. During the course of the day, middle aged white women bring in bag after bag of used clothing.  They drop their bundles off at the door.  And then these volunteers tag them and hang them around the warehouse.

There were six of us working today: five African American women in their late teens/early 20 and me. We worked in silence and with a little bit of indifference to each other.  No one talked to each other.  The radio was playing and there was a humming from the heating system but there really was no conversation.  Everyone worked in isolation and deep within their own guarded thoughts.  Occasionally, they might talk to each other. Occasionally, there would be a question that only required a single word answer and then there was silence again.  And they definitely were not talking to me.

I was to work with Valerie who was not introduced to me and as a matter of fact, no one was introduced to me. I introduced myself and she begrudgingly murmured her name. I asked Valeria how often she volunteers here.  She tells me sharply “I put in my 20 hours a week”.  That is enough information to help me understand that probation obligations motivate these women to volunteer their time.

I thought I would initiate some general conversation.  I would pick a topic that was one sided, so that we could all agree with each other. I announce to the group “What about those courageous people in Libya?  Who would have thought that anyone would attempt to bring Kaddafi down?”

My statement was met with blank stares to me and darting glances to each other.  They looked at me and then put their heads down. No one knew what I was talking about.  And in hindsight, I am not sure they knew who was Kaddafi and where was Libya.

So, I just shut up and focused on today’s task:  hang up piles and piles of used clothing. And now, my confidence is shot and I struggle to find a new topic to bring up.

Valerie appears to be pregnant but I am not completely sure, everyone helping today has a weight problem.  So I decide to avoid this situation until she brings it up.  I didn’t want to make another faux pas.  Eventually she does tell me she is expecting her first child and now I can safely talk about something with her.

She is going to have a little girl and she is going to name her Julie, after her deceased mother. Valerie tears up as she mentions this tribute to her mother.  We both talk about losing our mothers too early.

Another woman joins us at the table.  She acknowledges Valerie but she ignores me.  They talk about where she might go for lunch.  She talks about her children and their deliveries and the price of diapers.  Both women do not look old enough to babysit, let alone have children of their own. She has a need to go the Salvation Army for some sort of assistance.  Valerie spiels off the hours of operation with the knowledge of someone who regularly uses the services of the Salvation Army.

Then there is a quieted, quick discussion between the two of them on how many hours each of them must complete this week for probation.  They conversation is hushed and spoken almost in code.  There is definitely no intention of including me.

Valerie tells me that she can’t find work just yet. So that is why she is volunteering her time here.  She will do this until she finds real work.  I reinforce the need to give back to society and she agrees with me.

She dreams of being a nurse.  As soon as her baby is born, she is going to take a course to become an LPN.  She thinks this career move will provide her with bring her good money, fulfilling work and job security.

And as I listen to her talk about how lucky she would feel to reach this goal, I dragged piles of clothes out of a large bin.  Blouses went on the wire hangers.  Pants went on the padded hangers and then tagged for sizes.  We place the clothing on a rack and someone else came along and took them and sorted them away by size, gender and season.

Music played over the radio.  And the commercials focused on an audience of poverty.  “If you are a grandmother and taking care of your grandchildren, you may qualify for food stamps through the WIC program.”

The phone rings and I hear Karen telling someone, ‘No, we need a referral first.  Have him go back to his minister and get a referral.”  Valerie told me that the general public can access this clothing only through a referral from a church or social agency.

There are lots of clothes in the warehouse today, an abundance.   I am a little baffled by all of this. The warehouse is in an improvised area.  So why was there so much in storage?  It is winter time and there are over 100 boys’ down jackets on one rack.  Why are they hanging there when they should be on the back of cold, young boys whose parents’ greatest sin in not making enough money?

Most of the clothes are “gently used”. Others have never been worn and still had the original tags on them.  Others were tattered and should have been relegated to the rags pile.  But no distinction is made.  Everything gets tagged and put in their proper category.

Slacks from the fine men’s stores do not have sizes on them.  I guess one of the perks of paying more money for expensive clothing is the luxury of not having to confront your size.  The sales clerk will take care of that. We went through a lot of jeans.  And most of the jeans are donated by people of abundance:  44X30; 36X32; 40X29.

I left after two hours to go to my class. My back hurt and I felt a little dirty from touching all that clothing. I gladly left this oppressive place to go someplace more pleasant. Today’s topic in my travel class: tropical trips to Borneo.  Maybe I will do there some day.  The probation women got to go home in six more hours to their dreamless world:  their prison of poverty, their luck of the draw.