The Forgotten People

They came for turkey and all the trimmings - cornbread and cranberry sauce, hot coffee, music and warmth. Mostly men, mostly older, mostly black, many disabled - they came through the door and got in line for a meal, shuffling and hobbling, but all with a shaky smile. It was the day after Christmas and the kitchen was open.

There were the veterans, the homeless, the unemployed. Some walked on their own, some with canes, more than one or two in wheelchairs. Those that could help others did so respectfully, there was no pushing or shoving for a place in line. Just before the food was served, a woman's voice, strong and clear, spoke a prayer and every other voice joined her in the "amen". Sunshine streamed through the red curtained windows, a tiny Christmas tree sat on each table, and the men gathered in small groups with plates piled high, while local musicians played "Goodnight, Irene" and "Sweet Relief". There was talk of the old days when the likes of Chuck Berry and Hank Williams had stopped by, when Elvis had played just down the street, when there had been work and a prosperous red light district in walking distance, this last drawing a frown or two from the serving staff but nothing more. When they finished, the men left, some with foil covered paper plates carefully balanced in one hand, and each with a tiny, colored Christmas package in the other. As Christmas celebrations went, I suppose it wasn't much, but for those who have so little, it might have been everything.

I wondered about all the things I didn't know - did they have homes to go to and families waiting, where had they spent Christmas, how had they gotten to this place in their lives and at what cost. How did they fill their days and keep warm, who - if anyone - cared for or about them. What memories went with them and what lay ahead for these forgotten and unimportant people that are everywhere in this city and who we try so hard not to see or think about, or worse, dismiss as undeserving.

There was a lesson here, about charity and openheartedness, about hands reaching out to help with no strings attached, about dignity and fate and true Christmas spirit. In charge of it all was a diminuitive, elfin-looking, soft spoken and very old black woman wearing an apron and a hairnet. She passed out plates and hugs with equal efficiency, cleared tables and refilled coffee cups, knew everyone's name. First, she said to me, You have to feed their bellies, then you can worry about their souls.