It’s frustrating, right now, feeling like there’s so much to be done and I’m so. I’ll-equipped to do it. Occupy Sandy and other groups are doing such good work, such grassroots-y, radically loving good stuff, but here I am at home with a baby, and I can’t very well take him to a work site. If I had money for a babysitter, I’d have money to donate outright; they’re done taking clothes, which is the only thing I have a household surplus of at the moment.
All of this is to say, I was so thrilled with the hippie food coop, whom I have been a little hard on in the past but whom I secretly love, apparently so much so that I afford it/them/us personal pronouns. During my shift today, I had a fascinating conversation with a German, pseudo-macrobiotic woman who always comes late and leaves on time, about how differently she and her husband see the issue of how much say her son should have in choosing his high school. Meanwhile, I took mental notes as a Washington-lobbyist-turned-preschool-teacher demonstrated a series of face-taps meant to treat headaches. And then I bought some of that fascinatingly fibonaccian green cauliflower, romanesco.
I also bought a couple rolls of paper towels I don’t need, some vinegar, and a box of crayons, out of the boxes by the check out, filled with supplies requested by Occupy Sandy, the recovery operation that has grown out of the OWS movement and is doing a huge amount of work to help the areas hit hardest my the hurricane. (NPR ran a great story on them tonight.) Right outside the coop, Occupy had a table set up to receive goods and money. They were cheerful and organized and very gracious in accepting even my meager offerings.
“Everyone wants to feel they are helping,” said the woman behind me in the checkout line, who has herself been going to the Rockaways. It’s true, we do.