Salvation Army’s donation drive begins a new on a ring and a prayer
Dorothy Barriett gripped the two little red bells in her hand and, with a few jingles, started her shift.
Her job as a Salvation Army bell ringer remains mostly the same as it was in previous years: Jingle and greet everyone, even those making a beeline to a store’s front door or their car.
But the circumstances of 2020 are far fromthe same. People are avoiding strangers because of the new coronavirus. Many are strapped for cash, not to mention the literal shortage of coins. And the need for the nonprofit to serve is greater than ever, making the success of Barriett and others even more crucial.
Despite the 58-year-old’s optimism and energy, few people stopped to place money in the red kettle in front of Hobby Lobby during her first hour one recent morning.
Sitting in her wheelchair and wearing a red Salvation Army apron, she tried to say “Hi, wel
come” or “Y’all have a great day, Godbless” toe very person who walked past.
“They can’t hear me. I got a loud voice and this muffles me,” Barriett said of her blue face mask.
Bell ringers, from volunteers to paid employees like Barriett, face the steep challenge this year of attracting strangers, many of whom are social distancing, to donate cash and change. The same pandemic has created amuch greater need for donations to the charity and others that help people who are struggling. The Salvation Army estimates it may help 155 percent more people this Christmas season than last year.
“In times of crisis, whether that be natural disaster or an economic crisis, demand for services usually increases,” said Kristen Schlatre, director of the Center for Philanthropy and Nonprofit Leadership at Rice University, citing this year’s conflation of a public health crisis, its economic impact and a reckoning with race relations. “Just at the moment when these organizations have a peak need … their flow of resources can sometimes decrease.”
Barriett wanted to be a bell ringer for years — she can’t remember how many — but an obstacle was that bell ringers were supposed to stand. She was born with cerebral palsy and could not stand for eight hours as she got older. Three years ago, she heard there might have been some changes in requirements for the gig that would allow her to work from her wheelchair, so she applied.
She got the job.
“I like to talk to people and I like to be friendly and it beats staying at home all day,” she said, explaining the appeal and giving the bells in her hand a few shakes. “I get to meet new people, I get to talk to people, I get to be myself.”
“Have a great day!” she shouted at a man walking away.
It can be difficult to keep the bells ringing, especially on a sunny November morning that felt brisker in the stretch of shade under the store’s sign where she sat. But she doesn’t mind, she said. There’s much to like about the assignment.
She loves children. She recently started keeping a third bell in her bag in case a youngster wanted to try clanging one. That way she can be pandemic-safe and not hand them one that she clenches all day.
Ringers also have creative liberty: “Out here, you can be funny, you can be sad, you can be glad. Whatever it takes, you know.”
Barriett’s wit emerged a few jingles later when she spotted a Hobby Lobby employee with their blue shirt approaching. “Welcome to work!” “Thanks.”
Only a week into this year’s campaign, she said it did not seem to be slower than in previous years. But she noted that not many bell ringers had been dispatched yet.
A greater need
Any given day, 120 to 150 people ring bells for the SalvationArmy throughout the Houston region — a number roughly in line with previous years, said spokeswoman Mageida Sopon. That’s a sliver of the roughly 20,000 kettles that are posted Monday through Saturday across the country once all locations are open for ringing.
In the Houston area, the campaign usually yields more than $800,000 that funds programming — services such as food pantries and distribution, spiritual and emotional support — at the organization’s community centers, Sopon said. People can also donate virtually, which may help the region reach a goal of $1.1 million this year. The organization set up a webpage for the public to donate virtually, in anticipation of fewer people ringing bells, that also includes other opportunities to help.
“It is imperative that the community know that while we remain (hopeful), we are also very cognizant that this year, everything is different and at any given moment if the city shuts down, so does our ringing,” Sopon said. “Meaning that virtual kettle is so important to the success of us continuing to provide for our communities.”
Amid the health crisis, charitable organizations and nonprofits that work with vulnerable populations have incurred additional expenses, such as for personal protective equipment, said Schlatre, the Rice University instructor.
The spike in support that some groups have recorded in the middle of this year’s calamity is matched by the need, which is likely to keep increasing over the next few weeks and months, at least according to reports about the impact of prolonged economic challenges, Schlatre added.
“It’s not like these organization are suddenly seeing this influx of resources and they are going to be fine for 20 years,” Schlatre said.
The Salvation Army, with its ubiquitous end-of-year campaign and virtual embrace, has demonstrated adaptability.
“You look at the scale of that operation — it’s not just one person standing in front of one store for one day,” Schlatre said. “That is truly an iconic image that’s been going on for so long. And they’ve adapted over time.”
A pleasant noise
Barriett sees her role as one of Santa’s helpers. Most people who did not put any money in the kettle give her a smile as they take off their face coverings or a “you too” to whatever pleasantry she offers.
Occasionally, someone irritated by the bell ringing may offer her a dollar to give up the instruments.
“That’s when I get three or four of them (bells) out and make more noise,” she said, ringing two of them, punctuating her commitment to her duties.
She greeted a woman walking to the kettle.
“Good morning,” Jamie Hamm responded, returning the excitement. “How are you today?”
“I am wonderful. How about you?”
Hamm slipped in a donation. Her husband volunteers for the Salvation Army and she’s gotten to know Barriett.
“She’s always very cheerful,” Hammsaid. “It’s nice to see someone that is genuinely, sincerely friendly.”
With more than half of her day left, Barriett’s enthusiasm did not fade. The only sound in the store’s parking lot, off Interstate 45 and in the middle of a bank of shops, was the ring-ring-ring coming fromher pair of bells.