by Cade Lawson, volunteer and intern
Last month, as I walked out of the OAC for the last time until later this fall, I took a moment to reflect on how things had changed since the last pre-COVID day I remembered.
While it’s true that the pandemic upended the entire social service network in Atlanta, fundamentally changing what our services look like at the OAC, I was most struck by how different my conversations with our guests felt. For the first three years I volunteered, these conversations had been opportunities to listen, learn, and laugh while working with the guest towards a set of common goals. But now, they felt colder and carried a now-familiar air of mutual anxiety that came from sharing a small space with a stranger during the pandemic.
Time that a guest could once spend joking, recounting a life journey, or even crying without fear of judgement had to be occupied by new formalities introduced by COVID-19. Explaining confusing new
procedures at the Department of Drivers Services (DDS), waiting on hold to speak with a SNAP benefits representative, or disinfecting the intake area took the place of valuable moments we used to spend making connections with guests. Serving our guests often felt like a less personal, more mechanical experience. Of course, sitting 10 feet away from guests and wearing a mask did not help the situation either. It is difficult to build trust or convey a desire to listen using only the eyes.
Perhaps the best illustration of this post-COVID mood is the fact that what was once the OAC’s art room, a place for guests to enjoy a moment of peace and creativity, had instead become my office. As one of the few rooms large enough to accommodate social distancing, the art room was yet another example of the pandemic sucking the air out of the things in life that had once been sources of lightheartedness and leisure.
But in April, I finally saw the first sign that things may be returning to normal. It started with news that the DDS was no longer requiring appointments, a practice that was a frustrating burden to our guests and a time-suck for our intake process. Evidence that we would soon be able to spend more time truly listening to our guests instead of focusing on processes continued when I called the last guest of the day. He was at the OAC to get his Georgia ID, but before we even began he made a remark about my Georgia Tech mask. We joked about the basketball team and started discussing his love for cooking and experience as a baker in Atlanta.
The conversation proceeded from there, until his face darkened and he elaborated on the cause of his current situation: a relapse on drugs and alcohol just two days earlier that had cost him his job, his
home, and his marriage, after four years of sobriety. Through tears he listed the life plans that he and his wife had made, pausing from time to time to repeat the same phrase: “I didn’t mean to.” His tale felt like a confession, as he expressed both guilt and gratitude to have gotten his feelings into the open.
The story was heartbreaking beyond words to hear, but the fact that the guest was willing to share it at all served as reassurance that the OAC still comes across to guests just as it hopes to under the official set of tenets and values: as a place of respect and dignity for all, even at a time when a global pandemic has changed so much about the world.
I believe that one of the most valuable services the OAC provides is the opportunity for people who often feel invisible to have their feelings or stories heard and respected. Maybe people have simply learned to connect with others in spite of COVID-induced barriers to human interaction, maybe loosening restrictions and a quick vaccine rollout have reminded us of normal times once again, or perhaps something totally different is at play.
No matter what the case may be, those experiences at the OAC that day and in the weeks since have left me with a new feeling: that some of the familiar warmth and humanity is returning to our work.