Passing Out

  

             
Brenda is probably sixty years old.

Her hands tremble below the weight of the tray, which is understandable. These trays hold six plates apiece and each plate is piled high with beans, rice, and carnitas. We give hearty portions here at 24^th and Valencia.

I rush to Brenda’s side.

These dishes feel light in my hands.

As I pass out the plates of food, I receive various thank-you’s. They’re mostly in Spanish. I respond in my typical incoherent Spanglish, wondering whether these men can understand me. It almost doesn’t matter; the sentiment is clear, with or without words to accompany it.

Once all the plates have been delivered, I retreat to the kitchen.

While I’m washing dishes, Brenda tells me I am strong. She says I lifted those plates like they weighed nothing at all. I laugh at her commentary; she’s easily impressed. With a half-smile, I tell her I’m happy to help. It’s the truth.

But I can’t help thinking these ladies have mistaken me for someone else.

All the volunteers are older than me by about thirty years. They are kind women, with grown children and grandchildren they adore. For various reasons, they each take time out of their day on Tuesdays to serve lunch to homeless men in the Mission District. They pray together and prepare food together. They share stories, hugs and (mostly-clean) jokes.

Every now and then, they will tell me I am a sweetheart. Or selfless. Or strong.

If only you knew, I often think.

In some ways, I’m no different than the city of San Francisco: with its gorgeous skyline and iconic bridges, it seems like an urban dream. Everything appears shiny and new. The city is highly-desired and often-photographed.

But look closely, and you’ll notice the dirt on the streets. You’ll smell the rotting food and human excrement. Sure, there are some clean areas…but they are far outnumbered by the filthy sections.

A few years ago, after a string of poor choices and ill-fated indiscretions, my friend Jeff informed me that I had finally received my “human card.” I politely told him to take it back; I didn’t want it.

The Tuesday-afternoon ladies don’t know I’ve attained my human card.

In their eyes, I am an agile young thing with a heart of gold. And I sure wish this was true; I spent many years upholding that standard of perfection. I became quite good at convincing the world (and myself) that I was innocent.

But when I fell, I fell hard. Skid-marks and bruises and all.

Which is part of life, I suppose. And makes me more real. Without flaws, we are all just holograms. The pristine San Francisco in tour books and post-cards is nothing more than a glossy image on a page; the real San Francisco is gritty. Graphic. Stained.

Which adds to its character.

I cannot take back my past mistakes, nor can I justify certain actions. But I can continue to pass out plates. I can keep my heart open enough to offer love to those who seek it. I can acknowledge my flaws and allow them to bring me closer to others. Which is exactly what I plan to do.

Love,
Lisa