Meaningful work: A look through eyes of volunteer

Editor’s Note: This is the latest in an occasional series about dealing with hunger in Northern New Mexico.

It is 6 a.m., dark and 34 degrees. I am dressed in layers to cope with the barely-above-freezing weather for the next 2 1/2 hours.

I am one of The Food Depot’s 1,100 volunteers. Today, I am part of a smaller group headed to its Siler Road facility to help with a food distribution. By the time I reach the corner of Siler Road and Aqua Fría Street, there is a line of cars at least a half-mile long, waiting for the gates to open at 7 a.m.

A wonky person would say The Food Depot addresses “food insecurity.” True. But those words mask the immediate problem — hunger. Nothing good happens when people are hungry.

I have done almost every volunteer job at The Food Depot. I have repackaged huge bags of potatoes, carrots, onions, cucumbers, corn, bananas, squash, apples and beets into smaller bags. I have loaded nonperishable items like canned goods, cereal and pasta into grocery bags, inspected donated produce, broken down boxes for recycling and helped clean floors and surfaces.

But my favorite job is the actual food distribution. The work is physical, repetitious and meaningful.

Hundreds of cars and trucks pass through the food line in two hours. Each vehicle collects food for one to two families. Demand is up 30 percent since the pandemic started — many are first-timers to the food bank.

The Food Depot uses donations to purchase food for a well-balanced diet:

fruits, vegetables, dairy and meat. Local donations can be fun — candy, snacks, fancy bread, fresh berries and frozen salmon. One time I handed out cookies, and another day, a variety of other treats along with the pantry staples.

The people who come for food are gracious. They smile with their eyes, always say thank you and sometimes even bless you. Everyone wears a mask.

Early in the pandemic, most of the cars and trucks were old with cracked windshields and covered with dust and dead bugs — paint baked off, bumpers and panels held in place with duct tape or tied on with plastic rope. The vehicles were full of electrical wire, jumper cables, lug wrenches, shoes, tools, towels, toys, strollers and empty containers of engine oil. Often a rosary and prayer card hung down from the rearview mirror or the dashboard was stuffed with baseball caps and colorful masks.

As the pandemic is wearing on, the cars became fancier, newer and in better repair. Two weeks ago, I spotted my first Tesla. It is easy to conclude that people with expensive cars and cellphones have no business getting free food, that it is their own fault for not planning ahead. I think that’s wrong.

Who among us planned for this pandemic or thought it would last so long? Most New Mexicans live paycheck to paycheck. It is not their fault the economy shut down.

Canceling a cellphone is shortsighted. It leaves no way to contact employers, family or essential links to the community — banks, utilities, a child’s school, health care providers, the government. Selling a car makes it more difficult to go to work, find work and keep a family in one piece.

We need to stop judging and keep feeding. Even as the pandemic starts to wane, thousands of New Mexicans will remain hungry for months and years to come.

At the end of every shift at The Food Depot, I am tired, sore and dirty. But I always think, “There but for the grace of God go I.” And when I get home, I remind myself to write another check to the food bank.

Elizabeth Heller Allen is a retired communications executive and current chairwoman of the Medill Board of Advisers at Northwestern University, who volunteers at The Food Depot, Northern New Mexico’s food bank, and serves on its Public Policy and Advocacy Committee.