I remembered the first time that I had volunteered at the Soup Kitchen. Long lines of people curled around the huge room. As some of the people reached my table, and sensing that I was one of the younger volunteers in the Soup Kitchen, they felt as though I would be easier to manipulate. A few young women and men pretended and said that people were waiting back at the building, and that they needed to bring back an extra set of the potatoes for them. Being the naive and innocent girl that I was, I gladly handed out extra rations, without realizing that these women and men were just tricking me to get a little extra food. As a young woman that appeared to be in her early twenties, came up to my station, I snapped out of my daydream. She was clutching two children in one hand, and a half-filled food bag in the other. I placed four Idaho potatoes, the ration for her family, in the bag, and glanced at her face. She was young, her facial features lively, yet her eyes said otherwise. Her eyes seemed as though they were deep with sorrow and worry. She attempted to give me a half-smile but let out a sob instead. I looked at her with a sad look of pity, and gave an extra potato, which seemed to relieve her stress a little bit. She walked onwards, with a grateful smile in my direction. I warmly smiled back.
As I reflect back on this moment, I realize that this one situation has been a crucial part in my life. The severity of this young woman’s situation and her need for food is very upsetting and unsettling. During this brief moment, I had many questions about the young woman, and her whole persona. I remembered a book I had once read, Can’t Get There From Here, by Todd Strasser. I wondered if she was like “Maybe,” one of the characters in the book. Maybe doesn’t have a permanent home and sleeps under a bridge every night. She begs for food, and relies on the Dumpster, and the generosity of others, for her next meal. I wondered if this woman was like Maybe. While she walked away, I thought about where she would sleep tonight, and her source of income. I wondered if she had to sell herself to get money, like so many others. I wondered if she was a drug addict, or if she even knew the father to both of her children. I also wondered whether she had any family or friends who supported her throughout her pregnancy. I wondered if she had any support from her family, or if she was alone in her life. As I look back on the Soup Kitchen, I remember the long lines that seemed to stretch forever, as people waited in line for some food. I remember seeing a few people sneakily taking an extra potato when they thought I wasn’t looking. By living in a such a secluded area, where crime and poverty is nearly nonexistent, I had never been exposed to a life half as bad as theirs. I never grasped how bad life could be. Nobody ever fully understands how horrifying anything could be unless put in someone else’s shoes, or their situation.