|Casie (left) and Jonas doing intake in the kitchen|
Names are more than labels or curses from our parents. A name is holy, a marker for a particular person; even if we share ours with someone else, we make it unique in how it comes out of our mouths. It tells the person who hears it that they are known by someone else. I have a lot of favorite moments from the kitchen, but few gave me the same pure joy as the reactions I got when guests weren't expecting to hear their names.
I remember a Polish man named Jan looking childishly happy when I knew his name even though I hadn't seen him for weeks. "You remember me?" he said through grinning teeth.
I remember a tall man named Ivan who once dubbed me "Lady with the Names" like it was an official title. I considered having it embroidered on my apron.
I relished all the double takes and sudden changes of expression as people said, smiling, "You must have a great memory." That happened at least twice a week, every week.
|2012-13 volunteers on the End-of-Year Retreat|
If committing at least two hundred poor and homeless individuals' names to memory was my gift to my friends in the soup kitchen, hearing my name back was their gift to me. Many times, after a few days of greeting someone with more than just "Sir" or "Ma'am," they would approach me and say, "You know my name, but I don't know yours." Then I'd tell them and they'd make their own connections so they'd remember too. One of our musical guests liked to call me "KC and the Sunshine Band." I got "Casey at the Bat" pretty consistently. I even achieved "Case" status with a couple of guys. Sometimes guests apologized for forgetting my name or calling me the wrong one--because they know how much it hurts to be seen as just a body or as someone you're not.
|Casie (left) and Gillian preparing turkeys for Thanksgiving|