November 2002
Issue - Essay # 1
Winner of the First Seven Seas Personal Essay Contest
Topic: "Thanksgiving"
One
Scoop
By Karna
Converse
Thanks
to Emily Post, formal dinners in the Roaring Twenties were set with
three forks to the left of the plate, two knives and two spoons to the
right of the plate, and wine glasses that were "either grouped to the
right of the goblet, or in a straight line slanting down from the goblet
obliquely towards the right." She set the standards for serving a
balanced menu and creating a charming atmosphere. Since
my debut a few years ago as our family’s Thanksgiving dinner hostess,
I have tried to emulate the dinners she described. My table is set with
china ("about two feet from plate center to plate center"). My
silver is "not merely polished until it is bright, but burnished so
that it is new!" And in
the center, I create a centerpiece of flowers and candles ("There are
candles on all dinner tables always!"). Just as in the homes of Emily
Post’s readers, my table is beautiful and the conversation divine.
None
of these dinners, however, can compare with one that was set with paper
napkins and plastic utensils. The one where I used an ice cream scoop to
serve the mashed potatoes. The one I helped serve at a homeless shelter. I
had never before visited a homeless shelter so I volunteered a bit
reluctantly. At 25 years of age, I was in love with life and living for
the moment--and a bit apprehensive about investing time with a group
of people I deemed dirty and lazy. But
as a member of the group assigned to work that particular day, I felt a
responsibility to participate. I
knew the shelter was in a poverty-stricken area of town but was startled
at how poverty looked up close. The once-stately brick buildings sat
empty, abused and forsaken. In every direction I looked, plywood covered
the windows; the few pieces of glass that remained were cracked and
caked with dirt. Trash blew
haphazardly along the sidewalks and clung to the fences that separated
the broken-down buildings. Huge graffiti message spelled out threats to
trespassers. When
I walked into the shelter, I brushed past a group that had congregated,
forming the beginnings of a food line. Holding my breath so I wouldn’t
breathe in the smoke and sweat that surrounded the group, I realized my
perfume was no match for the odors I would encounter. I was glad I
changed from my smart-looking business suit into jeans and a sweatshirt.
In the kitchen, I was given a pair of gloves, a hairnet, and an ice cream scoop. My job was to place one scoop of potatoes on each tray as it was passed to me; the person to my left was serving peas; the person to my right, gravy. Further down the line, the trays would be filled with a slice of turkey, a square of red Jell-O, and a piece of pumpkin pie topped with a swirl of Dream Whip. The recipients began pushing through the line even before we were completely ready for them. A few joked and laughed, some mumbled and argued with themselves, but most said nothing. They shuffled through the line, heads down, backs bent, guarding their trays as if protecting a precious commodity from harm. I smiled politely as I deposited the mashed potatoes on their trays but my thoughts were less than cordial. These folks are disgusting. Their clothes are filthy. They smell bad. And they don’t even say thank you. But then someone did. A woman with gray eyes looked directly at me and said “thanks.” Her coat appeared to be two sizes too small. A dingy brown scarf, dotted with holes and frayed edges, circled her neck; a red stocking cap covered her head. Her face was weathered, her hands calloused and rough, but her smile was sincere and her voice sure. "You’re welcome," I said. "I hope you like it." Then it hit me. These weren’t newspaper stories of people who lived in a faraway place. The men and women eating my mashed potatoes and sitting on the cold, gray folding chairs in front of me were real people and they lived in my community. So who were these people? Lazy, good-for-nothing beggars who could find a job if they really tried? Or people who had simply fallen on hard times? People who lied, cheated, and stole? Or people who did what they needed to, to survive? I
suddenly realized that everything I had, I took for granted. What were
basics for me --food, clothing, shelter, job, family, friends – were
necessities for survival for those who sat before me concentrating on
spooning every drop of gravy unto their potatoes. And these "basics"
were written in capital letters:
One scoop of potatoes, one piece of turkey, one It was such a meager portion. The woman who said "thanks" though, was not only grateful for the food on her compartmentalized tray, she seemed to be getting high on the warmth that rose from it. She was laughing with the women sitting at her table; her face shining and bright; her hands dancing in the air, providing lively animation to her story. Then I noticed a man at another table. He too was laughing and talking with his neighbor. In fact, the entire room hummed. The same people I watched shuffle through the food line had been transformed--or had I? One
scoop after another, my thoughts about those I deemed dirty and lazy
were quietly challenged. I no longer saw greasy faces and worn-out
clothing or smelled the foul odors of smoke and sweat. Instead, I saw
sitting before me Sue and Bill and Ann--people who simply needed a
little help. One scoop after another, I saw that it was time to stop
living for myself. It was time to start thinking about others.
I think Emily Post would approve. For she also wrote about the fundamentals of good behavior: "Unconsciousness of self is not so much unselfishness as it is the mental ability to extinguish all thought of one’s self--exactly as one turns out the light." |
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Author's Biography Although
Karna Converse is now older than 25, there are times when she needs a
reminder about the number of people who need our help. This memory helps
her remember.
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Essay
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