What I learned about dignity from serving coffee

Senior year I worked as a server at a catering company to make some extra money and gain work experience before college. I learned several things by being a server. First, I learned that people are exceptionally rude. The people I was serving probably wouldn’t have given me a second look if we met outside of work; however, the second I put on my apron, people took it as an invitation to talk down to me. Guests always started out the night polite, but on occasion some of them would get ruder as the night progressed. As a server, the worst thing you can tell someone is that you ran out of coffee.

As a caterer, you have to estimate how much food and drink you need based on party size. Sometimes we ran out of coffee because it was more popular than expected. A normal person would say, “Aw man, that’s too bad,” to a server telling them there’s no more coffee. For some reason, the upper echelon of my hometown found running out of coffee to be a crime against humanity. “Isn’t it your job to have coffee?” “Wow, you guys are amateurs.” “This job is so easy and you can’t even do it right,” are all phrases I’ve heard one too many times.

When I went to volunteer at Our Lady of the Road, a food pantry turned breakfast cafe open Friday through Sunday, I was nervous when I was assigned the role of server. There were around 100 homeless people in the dining area waiting for food, yet all I could think about was the angry tirades of customers past.

The shift started out smooth. I carried plates of pancakes, eggs and hash browns up my arms to hungry, kind faces in the dining room. I filled cups of coffee when asked. The people were kind. They looked me in the eye and said thank you. They brought me their plates when they were done, eager to help me clean up. I told them to hand their plates to me and enjoy the rest of their morning. I got into a steady rhythm until I heard the cursed words: “We ran out of coffee.”

My heart stopped. Here it comes — the angry mob accusing me of not doing my job. I continued serving customers, praying nobody asked for coffee, a futile prayer at 9 a.m. Eventually, a woman asked. I said, “I’m so sorry, we just ran out. I can see what other beverages we have if you’d like.” She said, “Don’t worry about it, dear. I’ll be fine with just water.”

I was shocked. This woman has so little. She sleeps on the street most days. She just wanted a cup of coffee, and I couldn’t even give her that. Of anyone I’ve ever served, she had the most merit to be upset. Who knows when her last cup of coffee was? Yet she thanked me, told me not to worry and moved on.

Later that morning, I sat down with one of the guests and asked him about his story. He told me he’d worked in a factory before the pandemic, but a layoff, a rent hike and a back injury slowly unraveled his life. He was clear eyed, honest and hopeful. “People think I don’t try,” he said. “But I try every day. I’m just tired.” We finished our conversation with him reminding me, “Don’t assume. Anyone could be here tomorrow.”

In 2024, America experienced a record high of 771,480 people experiencing homelessness on a given night, an 18%  increase from the previous year. In South Bend, 547 people were unhoused in January. That may seem underwhelming, but think of 10 of your closest friends, then imagine them homeless. Would you still call that number small?

What people fail to realize is that homelessness is a chronic problem. The solution is simple: buy a home. That may sound naïve, but it’s the truth. For years, lawmakers have pushed a “treatment first” approach. In September 2023, California created CARE Court, which connects people to treatment in exchange for housing. Participants receive up to 24 months of care. However, these programs are contingent on participants staying on mental health medications and not re-abusing drugs. One relapse or missed medication leads to immediate eviction.

On the other hand, “housing first” programs allow people to focus solely on being housed. The idea is: once people have a roof over their head, they’re more likely to address addiction or mental health struggles. South Bend has its own housing first model: Motels4Now.

Motels4Now turned a run-down motel into apartment-style housing. Initially supported by Our Lady of the Road, the program recently received a $4 million grant from the city and is now transitioning into its own organization: the New Day Intake Center.

Over the summer, I had the pleasure of meeting Sheila McCarthy, executive director of the center. Since 2020, New Day has served 806 people. 76% of guests have been stably housed after leaving the program, and 88% have remained stably housed in South Bend or nearby communities. The program accepts people with few conditions, yet partners with local mental health provider Oaklawn to ensure support. Over 360 residents have received care for mental illness or substance use over the past two years.

What makes New Day unique is its philosophy: tackle one issue at a time. First, stable housing. Then, with routine and rest, recovery can begin.

The success of the New Day Intake Center shocked me. So often we invent complicated solutions to simple problems. If someone is homeless, give them a home. Rather than designing programs that shame or punish, we must meet people where they are — with compassion, consistency and coffee.