I volunteered at a soup kitchen today. We fed hundreds of people, literally -- I'd never seen such a big soup kitchen, and I've been working in them since middle school. Best of all, for a few hours, our clients weren't getting ignored on the sidewalk. They were treated with respect: we waited on them, like in a full-service restaurant. More bread, sir? Can I refill that coffee for you, ma'am? 12 more rolls to go, so you have something to eat tomorrow?
One man stopped me as I walked by his table. "Excuse me, Rachel?" (I was wearing a name-tag.) "Do you have teeth?"
It's not a question that I get too often. I'm a graduate student at NYU; I live in a beautiful apartment in the East Village; I've never had a cavity. I wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but I answered him anyway. "Yes, sir. I do."
"I don't!" He grinned, pulling back his lips to show me. He'd fibbed, actually... He clearly had two or three teeth that were simply refusing to rot away. Compared to my full mouth of pearly whites, though, I could see where he'd round down.
I wasn't sure how to respond. Apprehensively, smiling gently, I said, "I'm sorry, sir."
He was having trouble eating the carrots and broccoli on his plate, he explained; he couldn't chew the food we'd given him, and it was going to be his only meal that day. We brought him more soft dinner rolls and extra dessert.
Every time I volunteer, I count my blessings in one way or another. In Kazakhstan, I realized how much I needed to cherish my community and its potential. In high school, I constantly insisted that everyone was capable of something greater, that all of my peers (no matter how popular or geeky) could contribute to something larger than themselves. Today, I was reminded to smile.
