A heart-warming story of macaroni cheese.

A little while ago I wrote a blog ( Camper Van Ethics) about a homeless person who, for a little while, lived in our camper van. 
Even though our van was parked less than 10 metres from our front door, none of us noticed - which says a lot for our observation skills.
And when we did find out, when we discovered, amongst the overflowing  makeshift ashtrays and dirty crumpled sheets,  the tiny collection of personal possessions that was all that we had to identify our unexpected guest, it wasn't anger or violation that I felt, but a deep and haunting sadness.

But even sadness has its up-side.
And for me it happened when my friend Cath read my blog and, understanding my guilty conscience at the thought of a camper van standing empty through long, cold winter nights, told me that she had always wanted to volunteer in our local homeless shelter and wondered if I would like to do it with her.
I am normally a person of many good ideas and very few real actions.
But there is no more powerful motive than the thought of letting down a friend. And so it was that Cath and I found ourselves sitting next to each other in a meeting, signing up for cooking dinner once a month for ten people who have fallen on hard times.
And that is truly who they are.
A cross-section of people from all walks of life who are battling with all their might to stop themselves from falling any further.  
And as we chop wilting vegetables and open tins and race against the clock with whatever peculiar collection of ingredients we are using, we listen to their stories.
And each month I am struck by how easily it could be any of us.
One unlucky shake of the dice, one financial loan too many, one escape from an abusive partner, one dream that didn't lead where it was meant to. 

"What would you like us to cook next time?" we ask, dubiously eyeing our latest creation of slop poured over pasta.
For a moment there is silence.
It seems to be a question that is not often asked.
"What I would really like," says one young tattooed man, staring dreamily through his dinner, "what would be really delicious is macaroni cheese.'
I think of the complicated dishes we have tried to create, the spicy chicken we have served one time too many because there is so much of it in the freezer, the all day breakfast that used every pan, dish and plate in the building....macaroni cheese seems too easy.

But the next time we are there, we boil up the pasta, mix the flour into the melted butter and cheese and create our dish.. 

"What's for dinner?" asks our tattooed friend.
"Macaroni cheese" we say.
I stir harder, trying to stop the sauce from turning into lumps.
He stares at us, eyes wide, remembering.
"Last time you were here," he says, "last time you were here you asked us what we wanted and I said macaroni cheese"
We nod worriedly.
Perhaps he had been joking.
"I said macaroni cheese," and  a smile begins to shine from his so-often-disappointed eyes, "and you've made it. You've made macaroni cheese because that's what I said I wanted."
The disbelief in his voice is almost tangible. like shards of ice that are beginning to melt.
And walking back towards his room, he seems to have gained a pride in his step, to have grown somehow taller, to fill more confidently the space around him. 

And it makes me wonder.
Wonder why being homeless makes you voiceless.
Wonder how quickly you stop expecting people to listen.
Wonder how long it takes before you start believing that your words are worthless.

We serve up the macaroni cheese.
A plate full of the past, 
A meal of comforting memories.
A taste of better times when the world felt almost safe.

And I realise that it's always the simple things.

That sometimes something as plain as a plate of macaroni cheese will be the "simple thing" that gives someone back their voice and make them believe that what they say is worth listening to. 

My friend and I start walking  towards the door.
" What are you going to make next time?" 
We turn.
"What would you like?" 
There's a pause.
And then a man, sitting at the end of table,  who rarely smiles, looks up at us for just a moment, eyes full of suffering and shattered dreams.
"Any chance of shepherds pie? he asks.

.........don't go


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A guest blog by my amazing friend (and fellow volunteer) Cath

                    

On macaroni cheese, and engaging in the conversation.

Reading Becky’s post about our volunteering at Stonepillow night refuge made me feel both proud and uncomfortable. It is a beautiful account of a shared experience, but I’ve also found it a tricky subject to discuss with friends, particularly the complicated, emotionally charged bits that Becky is so good at confronting. If it comes up in conversation, I stick to what I’m comfortable with - the practicalities of what we cook, where the hostel is, how many people live there, and so on. So Becky’s post put us well and truly out there, and suddenly lots of mutual friends are interested in what we’re doing. 

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Like many people, I was intrigued by Becky’s story about a homeless person living secretly in her campervan. On our street! It is the ultimate illustration of how invisible a homeless person can be to the people living around them.

I’d long had vague intentions to help out at Stonepillow and knew that they needed evening cooks at the night hostel, but I’d put it to the back of my mind due to the doubts that arose when I thought about actually going through with it. What if the people were scary, or I felt unsafe around them? What if I heard distressing stories that I couldn’t un-hear? What if I ran into clients when I was around town with my two small children and felt awkward?

But I knew from Becky’s unique response to her camper van squatter that she’d be up for joining me, so we thought we’d give it a try, after all there was nothing to lose.

So, we’ve been doing it. It is pretty low maintenance volunteer work – 2 hours, once a month, playing a bizarre version of Ready Steady Cook with donated ingredients to feed pleasant, interesting people with good appetites.  

My fears were unfounded. The hostel has a stable, warm, quietly hopeful atmosphere. Residents feel really fortunate to have a place and it represents a stepping stone away from the street to something better – a flat, rehab, work, whatever. The ground rules are crystal clear, and the price of breaking the rules is high - to give up the coveted place, the chance of something better, to someone else.

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On the evening that Becky described, it is clear to me that I was far less engaged with the events happening around me than Becky, which is why I was pleased  that Becky wrote about it and articulated so beautifully what she gets out if it. Her honesty and awareness cut through my concerns and also gave me the chance to consider my own level of involvement.

My main impressions of that evening were:

·       I arrived late and felt stressed.

·       They liked the macaroni cheese. A lot.

Really, that was it.

I was so absorbed in my own internal to-do lists that I had entirely missed the subtle connections that were happening around me.

Now I look back, I do remember a particularly upbeat mood around the table, and also that I laughed (as did everyone in the room) at the way that the cheeky chappy of Becky’s original story asked for second helpings:

“That’s filled one bollock. Now can I have some more please!”

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We were told in our induction that volunteers are hugely important to residents because they are a powerful sign that local people see them, accept them, and care what happens to them.

The work has also given me insight into how our community treats its most marginalised members, and overall I’m really encouraged. Chichester seems to be kind to its homeless, and that’s important.

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I’ve concluded that tuning in to the subtleties would be beneficial. But the bottom line is that I show up and feed people, and enjoy it, and I’d recommend the work to anyone.

Now Stonepillow have read Becky’s piece and their Chief Executive has invited us to their AGM to give the volunteers’ perspective. So we’re joining all sorts of conversations that wouldn’t have happened without her blog, and I feel excited to get more involved.

And maybe next time, while we’re making Shepherd’s Pie, I’ll pay more attention to what’s really going on.