My Teenage Salvation Army Thanksgiving

From poverty, pride, and humiliation to ringing the bell for donations

When I was in high school my parents finalized a terrible marriage with a terrible divorce. My dad was bon vivant. He loved life, travel, adventure, great conversation, and controversy. He was also a gambler, an alcoholic and a philanderer, among a slew of other awful qualities. Eventually, they called it quits. Before that, we had been living well. Slightly upper middle class New Jersey family before moving to Southern California. 

By the time they split, there were seven children and my brilliant, funny mom’s mental health took a turn for the worse. So did our finances. Everything fell apart. Gone was any sense of security. Evictions, welfare, food stamps, government cheese (if you don’t know what that is, consider yourself lucky), Section 8 housing, you name it, came in breakneck succession. 

When I was 16 our family’s poverty was reaching new lows. Looking back, my mom’s devolving psychological state may have been the most sane response to what was happening. It was pretty bad. She tried very hard to hold everything together and although I did not appreciate it then, I certainly do now. 

“Let’s support the Salvation Army,” she said. “It's where a lot of people go for Thanksgiving dinner.” 

Before that, Thanksgiving was always a day of easy abundance at home. 

Instead of sitting around our own table, with our own turkey, and our own stuffing and our own pies, we arrived at a large hall somewhere in San Diego. My mom and siblings got in line and took a tray. I must admit that I was confused. Why are we here?

Then, when we sat down among mostly grizzled, silent older men a rush of understanding. We were there because we literally had no money for food. 

“Isn’t this great?,” asked my mom, trying desperately to maintain a jovial, positive outlook. “Did you try the mashed potatoes? So good!”

And then everything went dizzy. 

I pushed my way from the long, crowded table and ran outside, crying hard. 

A volunteer noticed and ran after me, imploring me to stop. “It's OK it's OK it's OK.” She kept saying. “Please go back in and eat, sweetheart.” I hated her kindness. I wanted to punch this sweet woman hard in the face but instead I told her to go away and leave me alone. This was not my life. I’m not poor. Don’t look down on me, feed me food that’s not mine and then go home to food that is yours. I don’t want a handout. I’d rather starve. 

The pride of a teenage girl is intense. At least mine was. 

Eventually my mom came out to find me, sitting on the grass. I was doubled over in pain because I had the beginnings of an ulcer. Her sadness and embarrassment over the situation became clear. This was bad. Really bad. And I was a horrible daughter. But there was no way in hell I would go back into that place or eat a bite of that food. Instead I sat in the car and waited, alone and furious. 

Now, many (many) years later I remember that day at the Salvation Army. Every Thanksgiving the memory floods back. Our circumstances worsened after that, with episodes of homelessness and addiction, before they got better. The struggle to overcome was long and agonizing, with some wild near misses. I’m beyond impressed by where my loved ones are today - including my mom.  

I’d like to tell everyone who is going through hard times that I get it. Especially kids like me who had to balance pride with shame. I wish I could tell all the do-gooders that your empathy can feel insulting, so please be mindful. It's not your fault. You want to help, and there are no easy answers. Assure them that their situation is temporary. That would have helped me.

The Salvation Army is a wonderful place, even for petulant, ungrateful teenagers. That Thanksgiving day taught me hard lessons. I learned who I was, the intensity of a mom’s love, and the resolve to be and do better.

Since then I’ve served on the advisory board for Harbor Light, the San Francisco Salvation Army’s drug addiction recovery center, and distributed many bags of groceries. Every Christmas I dress up and ring the bell hard for donations. I wish none of it was necessary, but it is. There are too many families like mine, where parents are doing their best to pretend to their kids that everything is normal, everything is fine, it really is, it really will be.