My mother's spirit speaks through the Pandemic

On my first day I pulled up to the Friendship community church with a fanny pack, Black Health Matters tee, and velvet midi skirt. I was eager to help and proud to show the community I cared. I met with Nadine, the director of the Corner community center, who quickly had pushed me straight to the sink, the glove box and the folding tables in the church basement.

They served homecooked meals stacked in silver tins over burners, and had hygiene products, dry snacks, and African print masks brown bagged in the back. On the rest of the tables sat 2 dozen baskets of local grown fruits and vegetables. It was a marvel in public health.

But wasn’t the first time I had been at a food donation center.

From ages 5 to 12 I lived with my mother in government housing. The projects, as my grandpa calls it, was a place filled with free services from plants for backyard gardens to art supplies for craft night. We depended on these services to live. For food, we used food stamps, but they were less sustainable because we had to pay our neighbors to take us to the store or travel a mile by foot. But at the first Saturday of each month, we appeared at the Allegheny Valley food bank.

While I didn’t have a choice as a kid, I certainly had no shame either. The food bank was fun. Spirits were high, and while I don’t remember any of the volunteers, I remember the snacks I got while strolling through with my mom.

I will admit that some of these memories had brought me to volunteer the summer after my virtual gradation.

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While I have always considered myself charitable both financially and with acts of service, I didn’t physically get into the community often. Usually members came to me, unlike the experience with my single mother raising three kids. The same spirit was present at friendship community church. The other volunteers were kind. They never overworked me. They always asked how I was before we started anything and meant it. I never had to wonder if the work I did mattered.

My favorite coworker was Mrs. Beatrice, or Mrs. Bee. Mrs. Bee has beautiful gray curls and the type of laugh lines that makes one believe she has lived a fulfilled life. She wasn’t near retirement age (or maybe she was but I can’t tell because Black don’t crack, and she moved just as fast as I did). She carried a handkerchief in her bosom and walked with pride. She was feisty, but only the kind of feisty needed when someone challenges your worth. Mrs. Bee became a role model for me from the first day I showed up to the church.

There was something so special about this experience. The fellowship amongst the community felt sacred to me. I had forgotten that I was helping them because without knowing it, the weekly food drive helped me. It gave me a sense of hope during a pandemic that Black people’s health could improve. It showed me during a heightened period of racial violence exactly how much Black life mattered…

- Enough to make everyone who received food re-invest in the community somehow.

- Enough to make me feel the soft and strong love of a Black woman, when I had spent 3 months grieving about suddenly being isolated from my second mom.

- Enough to make me know the community cared for me just as much as I cared for it.

I read somewhere that collective care is self-care. I’d extend that by saying collective care is community healing. Community healing is personal. Never did I expect that passing out fruits and vegetables would heal intergenerational trauma. Never did I think the guilt for depending on government services for half of my life lead me to healing. But as I sit here, 613 miles away from Pittsburgh, I feel a deeper sense of pride. I know my mom is filled with joy. She’s more present with me now than ever.

The Corner community gave me so much more than I gave to it.

By J. Rene Canady