Ice addicts with kitchen knives. The hazard was real, but the greater truth is that we had very little trouble. Any transgression meant not being allowed back. And our shift became so popular we had to start limiting numbers.
A little while back, the Department of Justice entered into a program with food charity Fareshare, where I volunteer as a kitchenhand. It allowed people on community service the choice of working down their hours in our kitchen.
Friday night and Saturday afternoon were dedicated for Community Corrections Orders only. I was placed on Fridays, which were overwhelmingly male. Start at 5 and finish at 9, half an hour for dinner. Up to twenty-four participants with approximately 80% retention week-to-week.
On any given shift 5-10 had seen time in prison, 1 or 2 had maybe returned from holiday to a massively compounding fine, and the rest of the group somewhere in between. They could have chosen to sort through donated clothing or remove graffiti or some other less consistently laborious option. They weren’t required to do the Fareshare shift.
But we managed to attract a crew willing to give up their Friday nights to stand on their feet and work with continual effort, despite some of them having been on their feet all day. They took so well to it, our output started to exceed that of regular shifts.
Usually three stations; cutting meat or vegetables, making sausage rolls and quiches, and bagging casserole. I maintained the pace at stations, while Chef oversaw and tended to the ovens. Neither of us proselytized. We just kept things light, played great music and diverted attention back to the food task. Eventually it was running so smoothly I was able to focus on outliers in the group.
Being the only volunteer in the room, I was the easy prey. Chef and the DoJ officer were both paid, which meant I was initially perceived as the most vulnerable of the three. I was the one working alongside them and I was the one hearing conversations I wasn’t supposed to hear, to see if I would lag. I never gave them my surname, nor met with them outside the program, nor did I ever ask why they were there. A familiarity was established, and trust was built.
The role dinner played in the program’s success cannot be understated. Chef would take her pick from the soon-to-be sausage-roll filler and cook up a storm, more often than not a roast with potatoes and vegetables and other side dishes. Everyone would be seated at a single table, and the conversation flowed.
After one meal, I was talking with a small group of ex-cons. I called one of them a champ and the easy conversation stopped cold.
I had called him a pedophile. In prison the word ‘champ’ is short for ‘child tamperer’. His mates couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. He himself quietly corrected me, and moved the conversation on.
Two individuals stand out.
Steve was introduced to me via footage of him attacking a cameraman outside the courts, shown to me by those same ex-cons. He arrived the next week; lean and taut, with face tattoos, a quick mind, a foul mouth and a genuinely dangerous smile. Closely aligned with outlaw culture, he was immediately the alpha of the group.
After a while, he established himself running a station. He turned out to be an easy leader, and delivered consistently against our not-insignificant daily KPIs to help meet a target of over a million cooked meals a year.
This wasn’t so much a power play as something else: Steve had decided he was not going to make stupid mistakes for other people anymore. Not necessarily going straight, but a recent child had made a significant impact on his considerations. He had identified his way out, and was saving rapidly towards it.
During his time with us he behaved impeccably; watching his mouth around the females, never posturing, never antagonistic. He just got on with the job and downplayed his authority really well.
There was a court date some months ahead, with incarceration pretty much guaranteed. A reference from us helped keep Steve out of prison.
Natalie told me her life was 24/7 hell, and that Fareshare was the highlight of her week.
Participating in the program from the start, she assimilated well into the group with her world-weary sarcasm ending invariably on an upbeat note. She could hold her own among the men and happily got on with her tasks.
She proved a natural in our kitchen, and became increasingly heartened at our treating her with respect and encouragement as she came to realise a burgeoning capability in this setting. Once her allotted hours were completed, she returned to Fareshare as a supervisor for the DoJ shift, alternating with me on Friday nights. Then others started following her example once they had finished their CCO hours.
Natalie is now paid to run the Friday night kitchen for Fareshare and the Department of Justice.
Eventually I was redundant. This model had become self sufficient, and it was an entirely satisfying thing to have been a part of. Over 18 months I dealt with about 60 participants for approximately 200 hours. 90% of these people had no interest in changing their lives. They just wanted to work down their hours and get out of there.
The rest were either Steve or Natalie. Someone who was already changing, and needed our guidance; or someone who came to believe in change during our program, and needed our nurturing. Or somewhere in between.
Nguyen became a paid employee of Fareshare after completing his community service. He is presently one of the supervisors on the regular shift where I volunteer as a kitchenhand.
Antony Giorgione 