And So We Wait

And so we wait – on this Election Day – in this pandemic year – on this evolutionary revolutionary earth.

We wait for forces other than just our own to determine our fate.  We wait to see when and if our voice has joined in unity with theirs. We wait to applaud – or just turn away and hope to return again another day.

Waiting while powerless is most excruciating. We who are marginalized within our own Church know that feeling numbingly well. At least in our national election we have one small voice; inside our Church we have none. Pray, they tell us; say the rosary; rejoice in the gifts you do have; you know, those silent ones, or we’ll shut you down – or out.

I read a story recently by Irish writer, Melatu Uche Okorie. Born in Nigeria, she migrated to Ireland in 2006 and spent eight years, virtually a prisoner, in Ireland’s “Direct Provision Hostel” system for refugees. Her short story “This Hostel Life” captures the frustrations, humor, faults and foibles, and amazing grit of a group of women standing in line for their weekly provisions. No one in the hostels was permitted to work outside or earn on his or her own. They had no resources except those provided at will by the State. They had no say and no power; they just had to wait – patiently, humbly if they were to get anything at all – for whatever might be bestowed upon them.

In the story the provision lines open at will. Despite the long lines (Beverlee, the narrator is number 126 and they have just called 18), only two of the four provision windows are open.

“’Only two people is serve all dis number of people’ Me I shout for surprise.

‘Dem day outside dey smoke,’ Mummy Dayo nod her head like she is know many things we don’t know. ‘After dat, dem go take break.’”

At that point, one of the women, Ngozi, who already has her allotment of provisions, sees a man coming from the provision window holding a jar of honey. She immediately storms past the line to the window again. The manager and she argue:

“’Listen, Ngozi, we are not allowed to give honey to anyone,’ the manager tell Ngozi like she not in the mood for too much talk.

 ‘Then why did she give that man honey just now when I ask for it first? This is what you people do all the time! You always pick people you want to give this or that. Why?’”

The manager claims they have given out all the honey now so there’s no use arguing, but they all know she is lying and Ngozi stands her ground:

“’You better find one for me o, because I’m not leaving this place until I get one.’”

The crowd thinks the manager, as in the past, will immediately call security to remove Ngozi, but, instead, the manager simply takes away the sign-up sheet and closes all provision windows. Then she and the staff come out and lock the door behind them.

The people shout:

“’You can’t just lock up because of one person. We’ve been waiting here for long. What do you mean?’”

The manager will not speak to them, and so they turn their anger on Ngozi, ending by pronouncing: “’All these women that like to make trouble.’”

When they see there is no hope that the manager will change her mind, the people slowly disperse. Even the narrator gives up:

“I am quiet and sad as I go. Ngozi is my best friend for dis hostel but I have to leave her.” Only later she notices Ngozi again: “From the window outside, me I can still see her stand alone for the dining room, fighting for her honey.”

We are not the man who got the prized honey.

Some of us may be Beverlee and the women who have to wait and try another day.

And some of us are Ngozi who answered the manager’s question, ‘Who do you think you are?’ with ‘And who do you think you are too?’ 

We challenge. We persist. We will not allow any system to shut us up or out or down.