In kindergarten we hatched chicks, an experience so profound I can still, stretching back over more than fifty years, remember the thrill of it. In my excitement I decided I would make the little fuzzies a special home, fashioned, as I recall, from those plastic green pint containers meant to hold strawberries. I was not asked to do this, not by any external voice. The idea simply came to me that I needed to make things better for the hatchlings.
This is my earliest memory of engaging in some version of volunteerism, an urge and a drive that has stayed with me my entire life. Such a zealous volunteer became I, that I joked I was aiming to be The Best Samaritan. For being a Good Samaritan simply wasn’t enough. I might not have been good at sports but the competitive streak I developed from having too many siblings and not enough resources was fierce. Outpacing others in kindness felt like a great channel.
During the earliest internet boom, back in the late ‘90s, I was making money hand over fist. I felt grateful and, looking back now, perhaps a bit unworthy. I needed to give back, to step up my volunteer game. And so I did, donating endless hours to help those in need and, not surprisingly, eventually reaching a point where I burned out entirely.
Around this time, I had an older and wiser friend who had also given much time to her community. She had a saying she shared with me, a funny little thing I have never forgotten: Volunteering Doesn’t Pay. For while my friend was truly a helper to many, she also understood how women in particular are often urged, cajoled and sometimes guilted into donating their time for no compensation beyond some warm fuzzy feeling.
Somewhere along the way, perhaps inspired by her observation, I gave up most volunteering gigs. Instead, I became one of those people I used to semi-scoff—the check writers. When I was getting my hands dirty volunteering I felt like they were taking the easy way out. Once I fell into the category of financial donor of course my attitude changed. These organizations need money! I told myself. And my cash was at least as good as the hours I used to put in.
During lockdown when I opened my home bakery, every week I donated a percentage of my profits to the Capital Area Food Bank, and these contributions really added up. I felt good. Then I closed the bakery and mostly stopped helping non-profits. While I continued (and continue) to help out individuals here and there no longer did I make space for steady, ongoing Good Works.
A couple of weeks ago I was listening to KUT when I heard a call for volunteers to help feed the homeless. I thought about it. Would volunteering become the slippery slope it had often been before? Would I start small and wind up overdoing it yet again?
I recalled an essay I read recently in which the author described how he had begun picking up trash on his daily walks. He articulated a helplessness familiar to me. Wasn’t it kind of ridiculous to think that such a small act could make any difference on a planet overrun with climate disaster that has come courtesy of profound, ubiquitous pollution? But he decided to go for it and as a result, among other things, he discovered his ritual helped him feel a little less worse about the sorry state of affairs we are all mired in and, too, he made friends with strangers who stopped to inquire about his work and sometimes pitch in.
This story reminded me of the starfish parable. Two guys are walking down a beach covered in stranded starfish. One of the guys picks up a starfish and throws it back into the sea. He repeats this action over and over. The other guy mocks him and tells him there’s no way that he, an individual, will make any notable difference in the big picture. The first guy picks up another starfish and says, “I’m making a difference for this one.”
I carried these thoughts with me as I got up pre-dawn last Thursday so I could feed the livestock and get to the volunteer gig by 7:30 am. Driving there I reminded myself that if it didn’t feel right at least I now have the wisdom to say, “Actually, this isn’t for me.”
Mostly I tried to remain neutral, to let the experience unfold as it might. Walking into a church is never easy for me. Of course there were prayers offered up and I breathed through them, reminding myself everyone has their own way of tapping into The Force and that I was not there to judge, only to help.
To my delight I had a splendid time. Fortunately there were no volunteers displaying the competitive nature I once held, no obvious hierarchy in which someone assumed the role of bossy boss. Everyone was very chill and very helpful—to one another and to the people we were serving.
I observed how incredibly relaxed and comfortable I felt among those we were helping—the church does not refer to them as homeless or unhoused but rather neighbors. Among them I saw many traits that resonated with my own experiences over the years: poverty, mental health issues, addiction. And as is the case forever and a day and for every single one of us, regardless of station in life, they wanted what we all want: to be seen and heard and acknowledged.
Because I work downtown I had already spent a good deal of informal time around this population. For more than a year now I have come to know “the regulars” that pace around outside the museum hustling for small change and cigarettes. With most I am cordial. But, I’ll be honest, some annoy the fuck out of me, aggressively getting in my face, accusing me of having money to give when I tell them truthfully I do not. Mostly though, I see people trying to survive in a town that has grown absurdly expensive and during a time when surviving seems like a particularly challenging proposition.
I finished my three-hour shift and headed to the museum. I anticipated feeling very tired but was surprised at how good I felt for the rest of the day. Not a sense of noblesse oblige but more like the trash guy and the starfish guy. Memories started floating in of all the times I was on the receiving end of tremendous kindness, times when I was incredibly down, struggling with mental demons and substance abuse and trying to raise a kid on my own without child support. I was the starfish then, relying on the goodness of others, a village helping me with my boy, scholarships that allowed him access to experiences I did not have the money to pay for in full.
I’m looking forward to returning for another shift next week and the week after that and so on. I’m working to keep my feet on the ground, not get carried away, stick with three hours per week and to let that be enough.
I realize something else, too, as I tentatively step back into volunteer work. I don’t think any of us will ever fully be able to tease out the collective and individual fallout we have all experienced courtesy of lockdown and the political polarization we’ve been through since 2020. I do think that the gravest damage lies in the disconnect. My introverted self is convinced that I am happiest at home alone with the dogs, locked in my room, because when I am, there is less chance for me to encounter conflict (provided I don’t get sucked into online arguments). But we need connection. And so, though often enough I must force myself to do so, I continue to seek out ways to immerse myself in messy humanity rather than avoid it at all costs, a desire that continues to course through me strongly.
Maybe I’m making no perceptible difference. Maybe I never will. But for now I’m going to follow the example of the trash guy and the starfish guy and see where this leads me.
NOTES:
Do you volunteer? I’d love to hear about it in the comments.
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I learned so much about my Austin neighbors while volunteering for Mobile Loaves & Fishes. (I stan Alan Graham, kind of amazed at the man, frankly). On my shifts, not necessarily representative of the entire community, there were ALWAYS several memorable categories of persons who genuinely seemed appreciative of a decent brown-bag meal. (Hunger will make everyone grateful for food in the moment.) Not mutually exclusive categories, for sure (intersectionality is real): Runaway "kids" (or foster care age-outs), often surprisingly adept and well-travelled; persons with mental illnesses, obvious and otherwise, some in active treatment, a few even a little frightening; persons clearly suffering from substance abuse disorders; recent immigrants (mostly young men who worked hard outdoors all day and in all weather and shared a roof or camp at night in large groups, they always asked for work clothes, which MLF trucks sometimes also had available). So many different people, so many ways to be without a fixed home within one of the richest societies in human history.
Spike, I like having a mental picture of you taking deep breaths in toleration of the Central Presbys, they are good peeps downtown. "Neighbor" means something to them: to be one is not about mere proximity, but to show mercy. Basic food for hungry peeps is about as basic as mercy gets. And they do what they do not because there is a judgey/abusive grandpa up in the sky, but because they know Love is the only way to survive/thrive right here on Third Rock. (Many atheists I know can make common cause with Jesus of Nazareth on that, no problemo.)
I miss being in Downtown Austin, enjoy!
I don't miss having to drive there. :)
When I lived in Seattle I volunteered for a group called 'Heroes for the Homeless'. Most of our clients lived under Interstate 5. The majority of folks I met were very friendly and appreciative of our services; however, there were those who, ironically, threatened us with violence for trespassing.