Two hours was all it took to transform from civilized to peristeronic
hordes flocking towards the tables; squawking over food scraps.
We played at this for only a night. Mock humility soured—turned
to vinegar in the mouth of humanity. We
begged… even though the dinner was simply a fundraiser
in a community hall (not the streets of Burundi or Liberia)
but more like an experiment on the human condition…
Failed miserably, well before midnight, when our fairy
godmother had promised to turn us back into ourselves.
It began with paperback philosophers spouting Siddhartha,
Mandela, Ibsen and Atwood—fresh out of university we
crashed the door, high on idealism, eagerly
grabbing tickets from the tarnished bin to
determine our fate. If you picked the gold
parchment, designated with a calligraphic
octothorpe, followed by one to eight, you would dine
on a six-course meal, presented on fine china, while
glossy-eyed servers dressed your lap with linen napkins.
One of the eight tried to trade this pass of privilege before
becoming a bootlegging, rum-runner: trips
to the bathroom with smuggled chicken, potatoes
and Ethiopian nightshade soiling the napkin (the African
eggplant shipped from the international restaurant
just down the street) and the teacup spilling its liquored
contents. Elbow to elbow in the cramped space, the
din of hunger a palpable rumble, while in the main hall,
women still packed the back of the line and men, being
half of those numbered nine to ninety-nine, squeezed
their blue tickets like some grand prize—spooned mounds
of meatless mafé onto paper plates—picked at it greedily
with their fingers, grains of rice falling to the floor—wiping
smears of peanut sauce from their lips as the shiny tiles
became a source of interest to the waiting women;
holders of the true line
the last to feed. Even before the hosts halted the under-
ground system, the privileged eight had built a carapace
around their two tables, where they guzzled champagne;
a lethargy tinting their eyes as they avoided ours. Such
a simple thing—to share with us, even if only because they
were outnumbered. But the instinct to muscle their way
to survival, over-powered concern for those who were
famished with want (in but a few short hours). The
hosts, who were heading off in a fortnight to volunteer
overseas, requested recruits—hoped some would join them
on their trek of care, and all ninety-one plus eight, said they
would think on it and let them know in the morning…
most having already made up their minds by the time
they hit the drive-through window on their way home.
Cristy Watson
That Time We Attended a First World—Third World Fundraising Dinner (Circa, 1990)
Two hours was all it took to transform from civilized to peristeronic
hordes flocking towards the tables; squawking over food scraps.
We played at this for only a night. Mock humility soured—turned
to vinegar in the mouth of humanity. We
begged… even though the dinner was simply a fundraiser
in a community hall (not the streets of Burundi or Liberia)
but more like an experiment on the human condition…
Failed miserably, well before midnight, when our fairy
godmother had promised to turn us back into ourselves.
It began with paperback philosophers spouting Siddhartha,
Mandela, Ibsen and Atwood—fresh out of university we
crashed the door, high on idealism, eagerly
grabbing tickets from the tarnished bin to
determine our fate. If you picked the gold parchment, designated with a calligraphic
octothorpe, followed by one to eight, you would dine
on a six-course meal, presented on fine china, while
glossy-eyed servers dressed your lap with linen napkins.
One of the eight tried to trade this pass of privilege before
becoming a bootlegging, rum-runner: trips
to the bathroom with smuggled chicken, potatoes
and Ethiopian nightshade soiling the napkin (the African
eggplant shipped from the international restaurant
just down the street) and the teacup spilling its liquored
contents. Elbow to elbow in the cramped space, the
din of hunger a palpable rumble, while in the main hall,
women still packed the back of the line and men, being
half of those numbered nine to ninety-nine, squeezed
their blue tickets like some grand prize—spooned mounds
of meatless mafé onto paper plates—picked at it greedily
with their fingers, grains of rice falling to the floor—wiping
smears of peanut sauce from their lips as the shiny tiles
became a source of interest to the waiting women;
holders of the true line
the last to feed. Even before the hosts halted the under-
ground system, the privileged eight had built a carapace
around their two tables, where they guzzled champagne;
a lethargy tinting their eyes as they avoided ours. Such
a simple thing—to share with us, even if only because they
were outnumbered. But the instinct to muscle their way
to survival, over-powered concern for those who were
famished with want (in but a few short hours). The
hosts, who were heading off in a fortnight to volunteer
overseas, requested recruits—hoped some would join them
on their trek of care, and all ninety-one plus eight, said they
would think on it and let them know in the morning…
most having already made up their minds by the time
they hit the drive-through window on their way home.