Right before church, in the big park, Irene chastised me, “Is that what you’re going to wear?” I was wearing my clean gray shorts with the light blue tee shirt reading “Purpose” on it, clean socks, and my black sneakers. The shorts were decent, not too short. It was a sporty outfit, not fancy, but clean and totally fine. I had consolidated my 3 into 2 bags, so I didn’t have that shleppy look. Also, I was freshly shaved, shampooed, and showered.
Irene continued: “Oh no!” I said, “Oh yes!” “Oh no!” she continued, “You’re wearing short pants?” “Yes, it would seem that way,” I replied good naturedly, but inside, I was annoyed. A deliberately passive aggressive, undercutting remark. In church, she sat (unlike last week) where the congregation sits for refreshments of donuts and coffee before the service. After last week, I didn’t wait on her hand over fist again, serving her, helping her etc….especially since throughout the week, I’d witnessed her not going the proverbial “extra mile” for me in the ways I had for her – saving the extra portions of my meat for her since I wasn’t going to eat them, getting up and giving her my seat on the bench so that she could sit comfortably with her back ailment, etc. Apparently some man at church had referred to her as a guest and said that he would serve her. I said okay and proceeded to make myself my usual Keurig cup of coffee and took two donut halves for myself.
As predicted, Irene scolded me for taking two, and not one, donut halves: “You’re only supposed to take one, not two”, she said disapprovingly. “Please don’t be mean to me, Irene”, I said. “But you’re only supposed to take….” After her critical remark about me wearing shorts to church, I was letting her know that her passive aggressive hostility was both perceived and unwelcome by me. She tried laughing it off. I was not amused. I said, “You worry about Irene, I’ll worry about me”. I was really getting tired of her judgmental, unsolicited remarks (I’d never have dreamed about criticizing her appearance, wardrobe choices, or etiquette – and believe me, there’s a lot of material to work with there).
Like last week, it was a beautiful service, Pastor Dave on point with his message again, and the musician, Emily, singing and playing guitar beautifully, including one of my favorite praise songs.
Irene bemoaned the fact that her wheelchair-bound friend Bob wasn’t there, as she, George, and Bob are the “Three Musketeers” (the subtext being that she’d much rather be there with them than with me). Towards the opening of the service, Bob showed up and sat on Irene’s other side. I turned and waved to him delightedly, happy to see a familiar face, and also happy that it would make Irene happy. Because that’s the kind of person I am.
After church, we returned to the big park (yes, like last week, I took more refreshments and coffee with me on my way out and no, nobody minded and people told me they hoped to see me again next week, and I gave a “connect” card to a congregant with my name and email on it). I saw George in the park with Bob. I sat down with them, set out my coffee and donuts, and offered them a bit if they wished. “You took all their shit?” Bob said. I laughed good naturedly and said, jokingly, “Irene already yelled at me for it, so don’t give me any shit”, thinking that would be the end of the conversation. Boy, was I wrong.
“That’s not a homeless church, you know”, he said to me, the implicit message being that I should know my place and not overstep myself by trying to take more than crumbs from their table. “I am the head, and not the tail”, I replied. He blew up. “Oh Jesus! It’s going to be that kind of a day. You sit down at my table, we didn’t invite you here….”he launched into a tirade against me. Whoa. So, it’s like that, I thought. “Um, I was here first,” I pointed out. I laughed at his balls, talking to me like that. He was obviously not joking and it was clear that he harbored some kind of hostility towards me, for whatever reason.
“Well fine – if you don’t want me here, I’ll just get up and leave you alone,” I said, half expecting him to clarify himself and tell me he was just busting my chops, no disrespect, whatever – but no. “Yes, finally!” he exclaimed.
Yeah, it hurt – but fawk him, I’d thought. Truthfully, I don’t know what I’ve done to him – maybe Irene’s been talking shit about me behind my back. Another thing she’d done this past week is wax eloquent nonstop about her past life and memories in the Bahamas – how she had a garden, etc. She talks and talks constantly. “Oh wow”, “Oh how nice”, “You look nice today”, “Oh, what a shame”, “Oh, I’m so sorry that happened to you” – whatever her stories call for, I’m always polite. I’d gone out on a limb when she started talking about gardening and started sharing a memory of my mother, also a gardener, and talking about my mother’s garden and how my mom and I used to garden together, and she cut me off and went right back into her story! Honestly, it was an unexpected piece of conversational rudeness that I’m very unaccustomed to. I’ve always let people share things – even if she secretly can’t stand me (which is a very real possibility) at least have the good manners to feign interest temporarily – which is what I would have done – frankly, what I’d been doing with her a large portion of the time. It would have been a kindness. She seems to feel like I don’t merit any kindness. At least, that is how she acts.
These reflections bring me to this next insight: There seems to be an attitude among this homeless population – resigned attitude, like we’re only worthy of being served last or separately. I don’t buy into this attitude. How could I, honestly? Perhaps this is where the hostility I’m picking up from people emanates from, that I’m getting ideas or acting “above my station”, or something.
mariachicat 