Wednesday, July 17, 2002

The Hungry Side of Dignity

Feeding the hungry on a Sunday morning stirs up a range of emotions.

By Marc K. Hébert
Points South Staff Writer

PINELLAS POINT-Dignity can be found in a duffel bag, a plate of grits with sausage patties and a L.O.V.E. tattoo.

The hungry and homeless gather in the basement of Bethel African Methodist Episcopal Church at 912 Third Ave. N. in St. Petersburg. Strangers and familiar faces sit on wooden chairs with faded floral patterns. Rumpled duffel bags sit next to many. Passengers in life: some with a ticket of direction, others on standby.

They number more than 120, largely middle-aged men. A handful have a light complexion, the rest are darker skinned. The colors sit side by side, but some tables have only one shade of white or black. They mostly dress in wrinkled T-shirts and shorts with worn-out shoes.

The better dressed are regular church members. They number fewer than 20 and largely congregate at separate tables, looking dapper in buttoned-down shirts and pretty dresses.

Leonard Roberts, a barber and business owner of Robert’s Salon in the Seville Square plaza, invites me to spend Sunday morning feeding the needy at his church. He has been helping in Bethel’s kitchen since 1990, when his wife introduced him to the church.

I welcomed the invitation, anticipating a full stomach and feelings of self-worth by helping others. I hoped to learn more about the daily struggles of the homeless in southern St. Petersburg, which I have not covered during my time as a reporter in Pinellas Point the last four weeks.

I complete this experience without eating a thing. I am satiated on a buffet of emotions: Spoonfuls of admiration, guilt and shame filled my emotional plate. These feelings develop as I interact with others at the church and by thinking about my experience after it finishes. I learn so little about the homeless, as their lives are more complex than I imagine. This discovery blurs the line between reporting on people’s lives while maintaining a professional distance and being personally touched by an experience, challenging my attempts to report objectively.

Admiration. Tim Kennedy unfolds his arms as he waits for breakfast. He is from Ohio but has lived in Florida for the past 15 years. The amorous tattoo, printed in block letters below his knuckles, dances on his white fingers when he moves his hand. He describes how his father and brother had "love" tattooed on one set of fingers and "hate" on the other.

"I only love," he says holding up his left hand baring L.O.V.E. on his four fingers. "I don’t hate," showing his right hand without any lettering. Tim’s black hair is sullied with graying strands. It is cut shorter on the sides but puffs on top of his head as though he just woke up. He wears the popular outfit of the morning, a T-shirt and shorts, with black grime suffocating the once-white sneakers.

Tim tells me much of what lies underneath his sun burned face, revealing the personal struggles over the past 39 years of his life. The pain of losing his home two years ago is followed by pride in his television appearance during his days as a professional ballroom dancer. This is the story he offers and I take it to be true.

I admire Tim for his willingness to share his personal struggles: having the police confiscate his belongings under the 16^th Street bridge to battling perceived racism from social welfare workers who do not favor his light-colored skin.

He holds his head up and shoulders back. The refined ballroom instructor waltzes beneath his weathered exterior. He says most people do not know he is homeless until they see him lugging his black duffel bag. Tim does not frown in anger, nor do his words sound bitter. He is confident he will find work and regain a home.

I cannot help but admire Tim Kennedy. He knows his potential as a man, such as dancing professionally on television, and he wants to earn back that life. Tim never indicates that society owes him more than anyone else, and he assumes full-responsibility for his homelessness.

"I was an alcoholic," he says and that led his employer to fire him as a dishwasher. There is no anger in his voice, no spite at his former boss. Just realization of what he wants to accomplish and he is looking for a job to start anew.

Fried chicken sizzles in murky oil. Instant grits bubble in steel pots. Biscuits tan in a baker’s oven. Three kitchen fans blow the warmth of baked bread into the dining area.

Guilt. I was sitting next to Tim when a parishioner says he found something to meet my request of helping the hungry. I walk into the kitchen and stand next to Leonard. He gives me two thin plastic food handling gloves and tells me to put the biscuits on the food-filled plate, then hand it to the person through the serving window.

The first of a dozen tables is invited to line up at the window. I ask them what they want: grits, eggs, sausage patties, sausage links, biscuits, fried chicken and baked chicken? Each person in line has a red ticket that reads "do not throw away coupon." When they reach the window, the ticket is placed in a glass jar. This system distinguishes the "first timers" from those wanting second or third helpings of food.

I greet them and ask what their plans are for the day. One man says he is going home to watch television. Another just smiles as if to say, "There are endless possibilities to fill my day." They return my greeting and offer appreciation for the food I hand them, but I did nothing to help them.

The past four weeks as I wrote about Pinellas Point and I never saw someone who looked homeless. I did not write about their struggles or their lives. I went to the Bethel church to learn more about the homeless and yet I learned so little. I have not had a chance to help them and still they thank me, only me.

Church patrons pay for the food. Leonard buys it. The church’s head chief, James Gray, arrives at 4:30 a.m. to cook it. I simply hand them a plate with all the time, effort and money poured into this labor of love, and I am the only one who gets thanked.

When the 120-plus people are served, many come back for second helpings; a few come back for thirds. Leonard and others in the kitchen also thank me for my presence and I’m invited to return anytime as all are invited to help and no one is refused a meal.

Bones of fried chicken jut out from Styrofoam plates. Blotches of grits spot table clothes. Bits of biscuits fall on the floor.

I trash the plastic serving gloves and head out the door. The moment I walk into the sunlight I realize the width of separation between my life and those with whom I spent the morning. I have a car. They walked. I have a closet full of clothes; they have a duffel bag. I have a bed waiting for me at home; they had their mattress confiscated under a bridge.

Shame. I drive home and think more about my guilt. I decide that my material possessions provide me with a different life, not necessarily a better one than homeless. Undoubtedly a home, enough money to eat and a change of clothes provide some peace of mind.

I search deeper to find out the cause of my guilt that evolves into shame. I spent Sunday morning not to genuinely help but to report a story. I spent a couple of hours helping the needy and now I am supposed to feel good? I did my community service and when it was done I left. I walked right out the door and never looked back.

I am confused. Why do I feel selfish rather than selfless? I have volunteered before. It is not supposed to feel this way. Guilt and shame after I help others? What is wrong with me?

Then, I realize what I did was not public service. I awoke before dawn on Sunday in order to write a story. I spoke with people and asked them questions not because I wanted to foster a friendship or to help my community, but to report it for others to read. I left Tim without saying goodbye. I didn’t even ask him the name of his pet sewer rat. They opened their hearts to me and I used their life for my professional gain.

The respect the hungry and homeless show me and their willingness to share their life stories has left lingering guilt. The moment I replaced my pad and paper with plastic serving gloves it was difficult for me to remain an "objective reporter." I empathized with their hunger, pain and personal struggles, perhaps too much.

It may be strange, but when I feel a pen in my hand I am focused on my journalistic task. When the plastic serving gloves slipped over my hand, my pen was in my pocket and I was not taking notes.

I decide on how to rid myself of this mixed bag of emotions. I want to look back at the church and the people who eat there. I will return next Sunday. This time as a volunteer and not as a reporter. I plan to try the fried chicken, to sample the grits and to learn the name of Tim’s pet rat.