by Bradford Shreve
I signed up to be a van assistant. The idea was sold to me as a fun day preparing food with my friends in a big industrial kitchen and I would be responsible for packaging and labeling food to be sent out for delivery to people in need. People who are not able to leave their house. People who are disadvantaged and can not afford to prepare their own meals.
When I signed up for my shift, all of those spots were full and I was assigned the job of van assistant. My responsibility would be to ride with the delivery driver to the homes of the people for whom the meals are prepared. This is the not-so-desired job that the kitchen prep workers dodged when they signed up to help. But this is where the rubber hits the road of this charity. Ultimately delivering meals to those in need is the whole point of its existence. But this is the scary part; to drive deep into an underprivileged neighborhood and one by one deliver meals to someone who is too sick to leave their house. Their house in the projects.
7:15 am: I report for my volunteered duty filled with anxiety. Anxiety of the unknown, the perception of the poorer neighborhoods as being dangerous and riddled with crime. Fears of being a privileged white man in a territory hostile to the white establishment. But there was no turning back now. I committed my time to this service and on an intellectual level I supported this possibility without considering the details.
Tommy my driver appeared. We introduced ourselves to each other and after he grabbed a donut from the food cart parked on the street outside the God’s Love We Deliver headquarters, we hopped in the van and were en route to Brooklyn to deliver meals to 71 stops.
Brooklyn is so charming! I used to live in Carol Gardens and spent a lot of time in Williamsburg. At least this was our route instead of the Bronx or Staten Island—Brooklyn felt somewhat familiar to me. Nevermind Dumbo, Brooklyn Heights, and Prospect Park, I had been to parts of Bushwick, Greenpoint, Red Hook and Borough Park. I can handle Brooklyn.
Our first stop was in East New York. I never heard much about East New York. Like I don’t think I knew there was a neighborhood in Brooklyn called East New York. Tommy hands me a bag and points to the building where the first drop off is. He describes how I find the apartment. The door buzzer is broken but the front door to the building is always open. Go up the stairs to the second floor (in the stairwell there will be some kids smoking pot) go down the hall and it’s the third door to the right. She won’t come to the door but maybe her kid will receive it but he’s supposed to be in school but who knows… His description was shockingly accurate. There were a group of kids in the stairwell that had the thick smell of pot. A kid did answer the door that I hoped was indeed the right apartment and not a neighbor taking advantage of a free meal. I did my best to 1) not look scared or intimidated (I’m sure I failed at this) 2) not make eye contact with the residents passing thru the hallways 3) just act natural (even tho I definitely stood out like a sore thumb). I found myself back in middle school ashamed of my goodie-two-shoes background and wanting to pass as a person poorer than I am. I was suddenly self conscious of my outfit that it was too formal with my lululemon jacket and black chino pants. Just keep your head down and deliver this bag and get back to the van.
I was already feeling the effects of adrenaline from my body’s natural fight or flight response of self protection from a perceived threat.
This was just stop number one.
70 more to go.
What I realized as we made more stops is that Tommy knew his people like clockwork. They had a routine going for a long time and from day to day the people living in these buildings follow a daily pattern and Tommy had it down like he was reliving Groundhog Day, day after day. His ease with the routine calmed my nerves as I realized I was not a threat to anyone in these homes and hallways. My fear was entirely based on my own hypothetical self protective, self generated fears grounded in my lack of empathy and understanding of people living in poverty.
As I eased into my groove, I was getting the hang of my task. Deliveries were happening as planned, as described by Tommy. We even knocked out 16 drops at one location, a church serving as a center for those who were able to make it that far.
On our way to the next stop our van approached the iconic buildings known as the projects. Large non-descript brick towers surrounded by unkept lawn and chain link fence. Tommy announced our next group of deliveries were going to be in these buildings. My adrenaline returned.
For as long as I’ve lived in New York, I’ve seen these housing projects and always kept a safe distance. Within those brick walls the stories I’ve seen on NY1 and read about in the NY Post gave me the perception that these were places where someone like me would have a huge target on my head. There were multiple NYPD cars stationed throughout the area. I was comforted that their presence acted as a deterrent, but uncomfortable that their police presence here everyday was mandated.
Tommy could sense my nerves, but never explicitly acknowledged my discomfort, similar to how you try not to react to a child who scrapes his knee, so as not to give the child reason to panic. He gave me clear instructions at each stop. Front door should be open. Take the elevator to the 6th floor. Out of the elevator, take a right and it will be the next door down. It will have some holiday stickers on the door. Unlike the other stops where Tommy parked the van just outside the entrance, with engine running, now the closest place he can park is in a designated parking lot, far away from any building entrance. As I leave the safety and comfort of the van I now have a significant distance to walk down a path out in the open, in full view of multiple buildings. I know I am being watched by countless residents taking notice of something not in the normal daily routine. Perhaps intentional by design, the entrance to the building is out of sight of the outer parking lots, out of sight of the van, giving me a foreboding sense of isolation like my safety line has been detached.
Setting foot into the lobby of one of these buildings I could immediately smell that I was in a stressful environment. The combined smells of smoke, urine and a hint of rotting trash formed a mixture of stale air. The elevator button would not light up. Did that mean it wasn’t working or was the light just out? The elevator arrives, thankfully, but inside the elevator is definitely a higher concentration of urine smell. Cold fluorescent lighting and gray tile floors set the design palette in the hallways. There are signs and notices stating that this area is under surveillance and how assaulting anyone representing the housing authority carries a heavy penalty. On my way to the drop I eavesdrop on a conversation how a parent is afraid of her own child— not afraid for, but afraid of.
For the most part, the people I deliver to express their gratitude. For many, I am told by the charity supervisor back at headquarters, this is their only interaction with people all week. It is not uncommon, she says, for them to invite you in for coffee and want you to stay and talk. She instructed me to politely decline and continue on the route. While the people on my route knew the rules—no one offered for me to come in, I could see the joy in so many of their eyes that some stranger came to hand them a week’s worth of food. Our interaction lasts only a few seconds but enough time to make a connection of being grateful. Others were less glowing. They would open the door just enough to receive the food, avoiding eye contact and shutting the door as quickly as they could. At first I take this as rudeness and think that they are not grateful. But taking some time to reflect, I can imagine that their response is a little more complex than that. There is a layer of shame that they need the help to achieve something so basic on the hierarchy of needs. There is a layer of resentment that here I am—this guy who is doing this as a good deed either mandated by my employer or doing it for recognition of being a good citizen. But this is a one time interaction. Most likely they will never see me again so why bother making a connection with me when I will disappear back to my privileged life while they wait around another week for the next good citizen to drop off the food and run. They see my innate fear and discomfort of being in the projects. They see my disgust of the smells in the hallway. Why would you want to be reminded of your misfortune every time you make eye contact with a stranger. Easier to minimize contact, grab the food and close the door.
After a handful of these deliveries with nothing bad happening, my nerves settle down and I walk the pathways of the projects with a touch more confidence. Tommy says these projects aren’t so bad. It’s the pink houses that have the worst reputation. I think to myself, thank god we’re not going to those! I don’t see pink-anything around these parts.
Then we arrive at the next group of housing project buildings with a sign out front reading “Welcome to the Louis Pink Houses.”
Adrenaline returns.
Here is where my yoga training was an essential tool. I started to focus on my breathing. This fear I was feeling is defined in yogic text as vrittis, or distractions. The way to overcome these distractions is the same method for attempting a handstand— focus on the technique, focus on the directions, and most importantly, focus on the breath. Acknowledge these thoughts of doubt and fear and set them aside. Clear the way for the practice to happen. Surprise yourself with what you can do when you set aside your fears. And with a few deep yogic style breaths I efficiently delivered these meals throughout the Pink houses. When I returned to the van Tommy told me (post delivery, thankfully) that that was the building where the cops got in the news for shooting a kid (it was a case of rookie cops firing their guns because they were scared and the bullets struck and killed an innocent kid in the stairwell. It received a lot of media coverage).
Once I became confident with my task I was able to mentally take a step back to observe these surroundings. Here were people just trying to get by. They know they live in the projects and what perception that society labels their experience. They are not here by choice and are certainly not reveling in taking advantage of tax payer dollars. How hurtful it must be to hear politicians spew talking points of how they are freeloaders and mooches and should just work harder to earn their place in society. How can this happen when even getting a meal is a delicate challenge. Not much else can take place when one is hungry.
One of the housing authority buildings was positioned above a train rail yard. The engineering of this civil multitasking situation necessitated that there was a steep ramp and a significant stairway just to enter the front door. The elevator to this entrance is usually broken. Climbing the ramp and steps to this entrance to the building winded me—and fitness is my vocation. The elevators to the 16 or so floors are positioned directly in the middle of the wide spanning building the equivalent of two city blocks. To walk from one end of the building to the other is a trek. These are not ideal conditions. Just leaving the house is an exhausting physical activity for a population that is in less than optimal health.
Stop by stop we find our groove as our route takes us into Ozone Park (in Queens!). Here is another neighborhood that I may have heard about but never set foot in. Distant from the projects, these were unassuming single occupancy homes, some even with a patch of yard. Streets no longer had names, they were numbered by streets and avenues—a definitive characteristic of Queens rather than Brooklyn. The ethnicity palate changed from black to brown and even some white. Here languages were more diverse.
As the clock approached 1:30 pm we made our final drop. The satisfaction of delivering upwards of 70 households a week’s worth of meals felt like a huge accomplishment. Tommy does this every day. This was just Friday’s route. On other days he delivers to other neighborhoods where he knows their routines like clockwork from years of service. Tommy is just one van. Each day GLWD sends out an arsenal of vans each with their own unique route. Each meal is tailored to the individual’s medical dietary needs. They are packaged, labeled and bagged with a calculated delivery list refined over time. A total of 7000 meals gets delivered every day to neighborhoods across all of NYC, Nassau County and Jersey City. What felt like a monumental task to me for a seven hour shift was just a tiny drop in the bucket for the organization overall. And GLWD only reaches a lucky fraction of the population that needs assistance preparing food.
I wouldn’t say that I had fun or that I feel great after accomplishing my task. I’m uncomfortable with rewarding myself the credit that I went out and saved a bunch of poor people and aren’t I a good person. Sure I did a good deed for a good organization, but they need this kind of help on a regular basis. I don’t have the time or energy to do this regularly.
It was stressful and challenging. But that’s exactly what I needed to experience. I will say that what I gained from my experience is perspective. Not clarity on what it’s like to live in the projects, but now I have an experience being inside the places that I’ve always avoided in the past. Yes, in the projects there are criminals and people that mean to do harm to serve or protect themselves but I walked through the halls of places I’ve been conditioned to be afraid of, and I saw real people, trying to live their lives as best they could. Perhaps I took a step closer towards empathy of those that are disadvantaged in their place in society and that helps me gain a perspective on mine.
2594 words
Bradford Shreve
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