To Serve

Davis Young did his part. Since he was a young boy, he took part in the "I help" program at his church, donated food and clothes three times a year, and always gave change to homeless men. Whenever he did this, he would tell them to use the money to better themselves, to not use drugs. Davis felt very good about the things he did, the little things that he did to give back to those who didn't have the opportunities he had.

After college, when Davis started his career in Agriculture management, he also maintained his status as a provider to the less fortunate. He became one of the founding members of the I-Help program at his church, donated 5% of his yearly earnings to the goodwill. Each week, when it was his church's turn to receive the busload of homeless and wayward men, Davis stood proudly in the back of the room, as his volunteers served the healthy sustenance to the weak, to the tired, to the poor, huddled masses. He thought about how he really was doing his part, how it was so good that he keeps the poor on his to-do list. He thought most of all, though, about how this affected his social image. "Davis Young, man of the people." Hell, maybe he could run for county supervisor one day.

Weeks and years trickled on, Davis made his millions, managed his employees, mostly immigrant, mostly illegal, mostly hard working and poor nonetheless. Davis kept feeding the homeless, their white faces darkened and cracked from years outside, their blue eyes hollowed by drugs, their smell of unkempt and unabated rot. Davis kept donating his bit to the goodwill. Somewhere along the line, however, Davis began to feel a sinking sensation at the I-Help
that he so profoundly managed. His usually smug arms felt tight in their crossed pose at the corner of the room. His legs were weary and he felt nauseous as the men were fed. The proud glaze over his eyes was lifting, his image drifted from thought. The room had a new light, the men's faces were startlingly clear. Every lazy shift of lean a glacial break, every dull flicker of the eye a shutter's snap. These men were real. Men like him. What was it then, that strangled the base of his skull? What strange wind gave new weight to the backs of his eyelids?

Davis was shocked at the very least upon this unveiling, that many, at least 60% of these men, eating kielbasa and rice, drinking two-percent milk to ensure healthy bones, eating cookies and bullshitting with each other, were among the first huddled masses he'd seen nearly five years ago. What was keeping these men from getting out of their rut? Can they not be saved? Are they forced into an inescapable life of destitution? Is this our America? The land of the Free?

That week, Davis Young mulled over harvest reports, employee action forms, and new-hire paperwork, filing them as per company policy among others, nothing more than Social security numbers. More so, Numbers that go unchecked, as to maintain a solid workforce. It was no secret that many of the immigrant workers were illegal, but their tenacity for the American dream and sheer willingness to work made them an invaluable asset to the business, just as the Oakies were after emancipation. He was on assignment one day that week at one of the crop sites; ensuring work flow efficiency when, while looking on across a field of dirty, hard working laborers, he came to an epiphany. He could rest his weary heart and bring the pride back to his social service. These men were on the road to salvation.

To Be Continued...