Ain't Nothin' but Love Here

We walked half-a-block from school toward the homeless shelter. A woman came out to greet us waving her hands and exclaiming, "You must be the volunteers!" How did she know? Was it because more than half our group was white, and we were the only white people in that square block? Was it because we were walking with purpose rather than loitering or hanging out?

She walked us to the back of the building, to a room where we waited for our orientation to begin an evening of work in the D.C. Central Kitchen. Another woman, a large black woman, came into the room. "Who has been here before?" A few people raised their hands, unknowingly volunteering to share what they knew about the history of the D.C. Central Kitchen (DCCK). When the volunteers ran out of tidbits of information, our orienter added, "When I first came here, I had been incarcerated. They gave me trainin' and they gave me a job. These people are amazin'. They can take a... a potato, off the shelf, and they... they can turn it into a gourmet meal. A gourmet meal. And not just that. The people here, they care. Ain't nothin' but love here. Ain't nothin' but love."

We washed up, donned gloves, and received assignments. Greg, aka "the G-ster", was my boss. He told me how to blanch broccoli, made me change my gloves anytime something dropped on the floor, and told me how to use the vacuum-pack machine. After a few hours of work, I gathered the courage to ask, "Greg, what's your story? How did you come to the DCCK?"

"Do you want to know the real story?" he asked as if he thought my blue eyes, pale skin, and Gap outfit couldn't take it.

"Yeah, I want to know!" I replied.

"Well, I was incarcerated in the federal prison in Butler, North Carolina..." he began in an accent typically heard on green line metro trains. He told me stories about the DCCK training program, excelling, and being hired full time at DCCK. He emphasized his skills--his creativity, his strict adherence to high standards of quality and cleanliness, and his success in progressing through positions at the DCCK.

At the end I walked back to school, pondering how an ex-felon had been my boss for the past few hours. By the time I gathered my backpack from the locker room and started walking to the metro bullets of rain were pelting my body and armies of winds blew and twisted and bent my defenseless umbrella while making it impossible for me to walk. The people sitting on the street corner just hours before had vanished. By the time I reached the metro, my clothes and my body were as wet from rain as my eyes were wet from tears of fatigue and concern for how I would get home with wind and rain pushing against me. As miles of underground tunnels brought feelings of safety and reprieve from the elements, I began to think how fortunate I am to have a home to go to, another pair of clothes to change into, and leftovers waiting in my refrigerator. I have constant access to a refrigerator! More than that, I grew up in a home that allows me to say, "ain't nothin' but love here."