Reading the Room
May 21, 2007 A dear friend of mine - he of Wit and Wisdom fame - has been visiting our public meals program lately. As s motivational speaker and business consultant he's made a career out being able to understand the group dynamics in play in any situation. He surveys the dining room and tells me that for the first time in his life he can't read the room; that is, he can't read this room.
He sits and drinks tea. He listens. He chats. I've been suggesting to Christians all over the city that they do exactly this at our public meals program since the day we opened. He's the first one that actually has. A few days later he emailed me his observations and I'm reprinting them here with his permission, and a few cosmetic name changes.
Warning: Crude language ahead. Welcome to my world.
This is a world with its own language; a culture of dichotomies, and an unspoken understanding we are all in the same lifeboat, just trying to keep our collective heads above the water line
One of the teen girls is pregnant and shares her medication instructions with the troops. The girls remind her not to drink to much tonight when a small herd will pool their resources for as many two-fours as they can manage. One rather foul-mouthed lad makes continuous attempts to step into the private world of girls and pregnancy, offering a litany of lewd comments about various body parts, including his own. Friend of Pregnant Girl launches a missile at the offender. It takes a moment for all to realize it's a tampon. Armed with a new way to be lewd the lad gestures with it, and pretends to put it in his butt. The laughter from the audience seems forced, as if it's expected, but not really felt. He offers to help Pregnant Girl practice breast feeding. She cups her ample bosom and tells him to go fuck himself with the tampon, since he obviously likes things stuffed in his ass. Again, forced laughter follows for a second or two. In another venue such as a comedy club, a stand-up comic might make this up, and it could even be mildly amusing. Here, in this place of buried pain and deep angst, it's just crude, almost cruel in its simplistic, offensive way. Tampon Boy doesn't give up until the group wanders to the food line. He returns with a tray and asks me for the ketchup to which the Friend of Pregnant girl replies, "Say please, ass-hole."
Friend of Pregnant Girl sits opposite me and apologizes for Tampon Boy. "He's a jerk, just ignore him." I ask her if there's anything good about the lad and she replies, "Not one fucking thing that I can think of." That issue resolved, she notes that the water tastes like shit and the broccoli the same.
Conversation wanders to the story behind the busted nose and black eye being sported by one of their number. Various versions of the events are exchanged. The commonality is that a wee snippet of a thing, who looks about 12, took offense when Bruised and Battered Lad belted a friend of hers. She handled the reprisals and won, big time. He's much taller than she and one wonders if he had to bend over to take his punishment, if someone held him down or if she managed a sneak attack. Whatever the method, he lost. Strangely, there are no opinions on the morality of the events, nor judgements - just the facts. He hit someone and got thumped for it. Justice in the jungle, meted out by peers.
I think back to our pastor's sermon on Sunday. He wondered aloud how many mothers do not even now where their children are on that Mother's Day. As examples he noted those whose kids are away fighting a war somewhere, in a mission field or travelling on business in a strange land. Absent from his comments was any reference to Pregnant Girl, Friend of Pregnant Girl, or Tampon Boy. The good people of our church are so disconnected from this world, and comfortable enough in the middle class church neighbourhood, that we have the luxury of pretending it has nothing to do with us.
A woman of indeterminate age arrives - she could be 25 or 60. Tray in hand, she asks if it's okay to sit and enquires why I have no food. She doesn't hear my answer. Her eyes wander wildly as she speaks, perhaps taking in the events surrounding her, or just nervously checking who she knows. She launches into a lengthy monologue about various health problems that are going untreated, a friend whose phone has been disconnected, and a critique of the musical selections being sung by the ad-hoc choir at the front of the room. I can't help but wonder if she's one of the mothers to whom the pastor referred. Or is she a child of one of those mothers? Or perhaps both. The teens have departed to other matters of great interest and we are joined by a clean-cut fellow with a new wind-breaker complete with a beer logo. He offers that he's not really hungry, but better eat because he hasn't had anything today. He gently puts down his tea, smiles, and asks if anyone wants him to bring back anything. We decline. On his return he sits and eats slowly, enjoying the break from whatever his reality might be. The way he consumes his food suggests what my mother would have called "good breeding", and I wonder how he got here. What brought him to a place such as this? I don't ask. We chat about nothing.
[rhymes] earlier introduced to the crowd two lads doing work with Narcotics Anonymous. They seem to now be engaged by at least a few people who are interested in the various meetings held in the city to help troubled folks. Another wee mission being advanced through the existence of the public meals program. Speaking of [rhymes], he somehow manages to be gentle as he asks folks to give priority to those with kids and physical limitations as the food line begins. In spite of a small uproar, he also gains their attention for a prayer of thanks and a welcoming word. God is working in this place.
Fellow with roll-yer-own smokes in a baggie does a brisk business as the food line winds down. 25 cents buys a butt, and assorted youngsters depart for the smoking lounge located on the street. Even commerce survives here amidst the heartache that rests below the surface.
As this is written, the lawn-guys attack my lawn, secure in the knowledge they won't have to deal with dog poop. And I suppose the universe is unfolding as it should because all is at peace in middle class suburbia.
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Reader Comments (5)
Great eye-opening conversations and observations. The above statement was the most penetrating commentary on the suburban church. What do you think the suburban church can do to truly make a connection with people at the mission?
beth - I can't speak for my friend, but I suspect he was happy with just a cup of tea.
That's why I've always admired you for your willingness to keep things as raw and real as you can on here. To do that, day by day, is a gift from God.