Fashion Stories & Dirty Laundry

I recently volunteered at an event celebrating the birthdays of homeless children in Los Angeles. They’ve been doing this for about 10 years.

I won’t directly name the organization as that’s not the point, but let’s just say part of its mission statement would be that everyone is worthy of love. I’m all for that. I’m also of the belief that all are worthy of respect, dignity and privacy.

I’m sharing my thoughts on this event as the next morning, I awoke with a maelstrom of thoughts — some conflicted, some emotional.

Writing this blog helps me process my innermost thoughts. There are worse ways to deal with it.

In totality, it was a wonderful event. Lively, generous and well-organized. The problem with being a former event planner, is any event I go to, I see the holes and flaws. I hate that, but cannot help it.

Event planning has forever changed my eyes and the overwhelming urge to analyze is constantly there. As I help and assist, in my mind I’m critiquing, “well, I would have had that table over there, that station over there has a ‘bottleneck’. I would have had those volunteers over here and would have done thus and such.” It’s horrible and I admit it. But that’s what it is.

Nevertheless, I jump in, meet some wonderful people and serve outside of myself.

The thing about serving others, is that it changes and molds the server more than those being served- especially when working with those in need.

Images of that night replay in my mind. The beautiful balloon arch, where children and their families, marched through 2 parallel lines of us ‘volunteers clapping and cheering’ for them. We meant well.

I saw some of the kids cry in excitement. I saw some of the parents grateful. Others embarrassed and some older kids angry. I said to myself, “they KNOW that WE know they are homeless and struggling.” I meditated upon that late into the evening and next day.

The DJ, who was amazing, meant well. The food booths, the petting zoo, every single person there meant well. Everyone at this event, meant well.

While it was a reprieve for many, and a night of fun forgetting about their problems – was it? Honestly, I’m undecided. Something in my spirit is conflicted.

I’m never conflicted about helping others. But I think about the mode of help. The execution of ‘the plan’. Does it hurt or help?

I saw a few of the parents looking at many of us. At times, I felt humbled but also embarrassed of myself. They know that we go back to our lives, our warm homes and beds, our refrigerators most times full. We aren’t sleeping in a homeless shelter. Many of us fit the classic privilege check box.

After volunteering at the petting zoo area, I decided to ‘bail’ on the goats and rabbits and walk around. I wanted to talk to people. I wanted to get out of that silly smile-face volunteer mode.

I met a mother from Russia with 3 kids. Another woman with 5. I gazed into faces of women about 20 years younger than me that looked far older than me. The streets will do that to you. Streets and stress are not kind, they’re especially unkind to women.

I press on. I ask for their names, and gave mine. I shook their hands. It’s amazing how people’s faces light up when you actually ask their name. That’s dignity, not the ‘rah-rah yay party’ which they know will end in about 3 hours.

I had some weird moments too. It’s as if a few inner dialogues where playing all through-out the evening of interaction and observation. In watching them, I reflected how I came off. My clean sneakers, my blonde ponytail and 1st hand clothes. I made a misstep and wore an old Tiffany watch, not diamonds, but nice enough so I turned that face around my wrist. If I think I’m somehow humble by doing that, I admit I’m delusional. It’s amazing that a person who’s not on the street, can remove all the so called nice items and still not fit in. They know it. I know it. They were actually more gracious to me than I expected — or deserved.

I press on.

I help hold a few kids, then put them on the pony. I watch a stroller for a couple so they can get some party gifts and more food. I take some family pics for the families that want them. I try my best. It won’t be enough, but it’s something. I can’t comprehend what these people go through day in and day out. I stop trying to analyze, because I know it’s futile.

I press towards thankfulness.

My 16 year old was volunteering with me. It was emotional to being there with him. I watched his face as kids rushed into the party area. His countenance changed with a flush of realization of how little these children and families have.

I caught that change and was thankful. Perhaps he’s thinking of the 16 wonderful birthdays he’s had with either family or friends and how he never went without birthday gifts or cake. I am thankful.

I think about if that was my son and me walking through that balloon arch. I’m kind of a private type and know I’d be embarrassed; I’m pretty sure my son would be too.

Some will say how great it was that you helped out, how noble of you to spend your evening doing something for others. But the truth is, I can guarantee it benefited me more. After about 3 hours, the groups were whisked back on to their buses to head back to skid row. Imagine that? I’ll find a Lime scooter later.

The photo ops, music, speeches and more pictures were done. The truth is, I didn’t want it to end. It’s there where your authentic self emerges and you see who you truly are. I left the party area to walk on the sidewalk and stood staring at the families on the bus. Many of them waved at me. I waved back. My throat lumped with a multitude of emotions. Sadness. Joy. Guilt. Embarrassment. Regret. Peace. Thankfulness. Longing.

They leave. I want to leave. But I head back to help a bit more.

It is then I remember what my son said to me during the evening. “Mom, I’ve been watching you, I have so much respect for you. You really are good with people.”

And there was my gift for that night. It was worth it.