9/27/2023 crystal
I just want to make one thing perfectly clear to anyone who comes into contact with me: the only reason I volunteer at the food pantries, the ONLY REASON, is so that I can pick out my own food. It's not "to give back," "to do good," "to be social," "for the law of reciprocity," (whatever the fuck that means) or any other reason. It's so that I can choose what we eat. All math.
Not to mention, and more than that anymore: I don't trust any of you schmuck volunteers or staff to not put something poisoned in my bag because some asshole trained in psy-ops gave you 30 bucks to do it. Doesn't matter if you knew why or not. I don't trust you. Having said that, now I will say this: you are schmucks. Food pantry volunteers and organizers are some of the most vile walking talking feces I have ever encountered. One man who I was guiding through the pantry in Indianapolis had a broken back. Asshole doesn't even begin to describe the pinky toe of the head volunteer guy on the board of directors. Let's call him Bill--since that is his name. Bill always wanted to keep things moving quickly. He was always walking around rushing the clients and hassling the volunteers about spending too much time engaging in conversation with the clients, each other, whatever. If we had enough volunteers, one would be dedicated to the task of helping clients who desired it to carry the food on a cart up the elevator with the client and out to their car. One time Speaks with Thunder was gone for some 10 or 15 minutes when he walked a guy all the way back to the dude's apartment. For reference, in Bill's little fantasy world, that's enough time to take 3 pantry guests through. Anyway, on this particular day--when I had guided the very pleasantly tempered man with a broken back through the pantry, I'm carrying the full bag of food, opening my mouth with a cheerful expression to let Bill know that this man has a broken back so I'll walk him up to his car with the food, but before I even finish drawing the breath to say it, Bill swipes the bag out of my arms, violently shoves it into the arms of the man whose back is broken, and says brusquely, "wedon'thavetimetowalkpeopleuptotheircars." Maybe those weren't the exact words, but the exact words aren't really that important. Myself, I was stunned. And speechless. I looked at the guy helplessly and apologetically, for I too was broken--of spirit. I really wish I could go back and grasp the bag, holding it fast when I sensed Bill was clawing it from my arms. I wish I could have stood up against Bill for the guy, but I guess it's no use crying over spilled milk and best to use the experience as a learning opportunity. A chance to fortify myself, steeling myself against the will of assholes. 'Cuz dey everywhere. I've got lots more pantry stories. How horrifically I have been treated as a client, as a monetarily non-wealthy volunteer, the racism and classism I have seen committed by staff and volunteers both to the faces and behind the backs of clients and volunteers. These people--they'll call you nigger and in the same breath tell you they're not racist. As it just so happens, I do love sorting and organizing, so the tasks requested by food pantries of volunteers are basically right up my alley, but I can sort and organize whatever I want, whenever the fuck I want to, I don't need to go wade through a swamp of bloody gnashing idiots to do it. I don't need you. You need me. |
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