A day at the community center in Chinatown with Brad Phillips

I haven’t had a real job in twenty-five years. No boss, no coworkers, no place I’m required to be. For a long time I thought this made me happy.

I was wrong.

Eight months ago I started volunteering at a community center in Chinatown. Every Monday and Friday morning I put on an apron, rubber gloves and a hairnet, then serve one of six different vegan breakfasts to ninety-five Chinese, three Jewish, and two Puerto Rican senior citizens. Everyone finishes their meal in under ten minutes, after which they file out, slowly, some with walkers, some with canes. Once the dining hall is empty I clean the tables, return the dishes to the kitchen, then set everything up for lunch. Outside of time spent with my wife, this is the best part of my week. It brings me joy, and I count the days until I get to do it again.

I’m not proud to admit that I hadn’t considered volunteering before. I like to think I’m a nice guy. I will always help someone carry their luggage or baby stroller up the subway steps, and I even smile at strangers like a psycho. But devoting a regular block of time to helping people never crossed my mind. Maybe that’s because I’m self-employed, and always drowning in deadlines. Being your own boss means you’re never off the clock, and if you’re like me, you rarely feel secure. When I’m not working I’m trying to find more work. Time is my most precious possession.

But in January something happened. I was walking on the treadmill in the gym at the aforementioned community center, one floor below the dining hall. An elderly couple was  struggling to use the treadmill next to mine. We made eye contact. They spoke absolutely no English, but I understood their problem. They wanted to get some exercise while watching a recording of an Australian hiking path on a video console, but were confused by the technology. I was getting some exercise myself while watching a recording of a Chilean forest path, and it was lovely. I wanted them to enjoy the same experience. Through a complex sequence of hand gestures I was able to show them how to operate the treadmill. They were grateful, and their smiles were beautiful. A bell went off in my head. I’d seen flyers in the elevators seeking volunteers for the senior’s breakfast. I could make lots of people happy by serving them food. And I could spare the time—after all, I spent an hour at the gym everyday. 

I signed up immediately. 

It’s not breaking news that the urge to volunteer can be a selfish one, which seems ironic. By helping other people, you get to feel good about yourself. This doesn’t mean however that I wasn’t genuinely looking to be of service—I was. It’s just a pleasant coincidence that helping others makes me happy. After thinking recently about why volunteering brings me so much joy, I’ve realized that happiness—mine or the people I serve breakfast to—has very little to do with it. Instead, it’s about a sense of purpose.

I spent those twenty-five years without a real job working as an artist and a writer. I made paintings, and they were exhibited in galleries and museums. I wrote essays and short stories, and they were published in books and magazines. I worked alone—eight to twelve hours a day, six days a week—as isolated as the Unabomber. No one to speak to, no one to joke around with. I didn’t think I was lonely. But once I started volunteering—working alongside Yolanda, Shawnay, Ruth, and Dionisio—I realized I’d been deprived of an essential human experience. Community. 

One of my friends is a very successful musician. He tours the world. When he’s on stage the audience sings along. They clap and cheer and scream his name. This doesn’t happen to me. Aside from snarky reviews in niche magazines, the response to art and writing is typically very quiet. Never once at an art opening have people gathered around one of my paintings and clapped. I’m not saying I want people to applaud me, to scream “I love you Brad!” Well, it’s possible I might like that, sure. But praise isn’t the point. With music—and with most other vocations—there is a very clear exchange of energy, to use a corny expression. Things are black and white. Meaning and value aren’t elusive. The musician on stage expends energy wailing on their guitar or singing, and the audience sends energy back in the form of noise, or dancing. Most jobs work this way. A doctor gives a patient good news, and the patient expresses relief. If it’s bad news, treatment begins. The delivery person hands a package off to its owner, goes home to their family, and later gets a paycheck. The waiter brings food to a hungry person who then eats it, etcetera. The jobs I chose for myself are much different. 

Art and writing are both abstract pursuits. A painting that takes weeks to make and is exhibited in a prestigious gallery might not sell. A short story published in a fancy magazine may elicit zero response. Artists put their hearts into something then send it into the void, with no guarantee of compensation, praise, or even criticism. The worst response—no response—is the most common. It can wear on a person, or it wore on me. I was shocked to discover I was hungry for interaction. 

I volunteered this morning. Monday is French toast day, the busiest day of the week. Phyllis—who’s in her late 90s—loves French toast day, and always tries to sneak a second helping. Because the senior’s breakfast is run by a charity there are a limited number of meals available, and no seconds allowed. But the volunteers are also allotted a meal, so on Mondays I give my French toast to Phyllis, who sneaks it out in her bag. In return for my breakfast, she gives me a grandmotherly look, a big smile, and sometimes pats my back. To say it feels good is an obscene understatement. Things like this never happened in my studio. I’ve been an artist for a very long time, but I’m not sure making art has ever given me a sense of purpose. Volunteering does.

Because the material for my work always originated in my own mind, I was always thinking. At the community center—wiping down a table or cleaning a dirty dish—I’m thinking only of what I can do for others. When I’m not thinking about myself, I’m not plagued by the constellation of insecurities and fears that rattle around in my brain. For two hours a week I’m not Brad, and that’s been an enormous relief. 

Writer

Brad Phillips