A Day in Queens

“It’s not a good idea to go up to people and ask, ‘Are you homeless?'”

It’s mid-Saturday morning at the Ministry Training Center (MTC) in Elmhurst, a neighborhood in Queens, NYC. About two dozen Lancastrians have just gotten off the bus in the Big Apple and are getting a crash course in local demographics and street ministry. “There’s about ninety thousand people per square mile here in Elmhurst. Most of them are immigrants or the children of immigrants. Many of them don’t speak English.” Seth, the MTC staff member, pauses and adds, “You’ll definitely be in the minority here.”

We’re sitting on folding chairs, in a large open room on the first floor of a city row house that’s been converted into a church and ministry training center. The room we’re in is decorated in the familiar minimalism style— white walls, black accents, even the black wrought iron bars on the windows match. A few of us are clutching Styrofoam cups full of coffee— our bus had left our church in New Holland at 6 a.m. We’ve brought along over two hundred care packages, backpacks with personal care items and snacks to distribute to the homeless in America’s largest city.

“COVID is still very real to the people here. This neighborhood was hit hard by the pandemic,” Seth tells us. “Elmhurst was that hospital that you saw so often in the news a year ago. I live close to there and we heard sirens almost constantly. Most of the people in this neighborhood know at least one person who died.”

Seth hands out maps, tells us to silence our phones, and give us instructions to get out and meet people, offer them care packages or Christian literature if they want some, and find an ethic restaurant for lunch. “No McDonalds. And don’t try doing what some guys did. They went to a pizza place and tried to tell me that it was Italian food.” Everyone laughs.

We divide up into groups, and leave the ministry center, wearing masks. (Mask-wearing has waned in Lancaster, but when in Queens…) The others in my group are my good friend, Amy and a younger couple, Curtis and Cherise. The day is a little overcast but comfortably cool.

“Why don’t we try a park?”, someone suggests, and we all agree that’s a good plan. We start off toward Broadway, in the direction of the hospital.

As we walk along, I try to wrap my mind around the ninety thousand people thing. I know my hometown of Leola has a population density of six thousand per square mile. Elmhurst has apartment buildings but there’s also plenty of ordinary row houses, garages, restaurants, and corner shops. Where did they put everyone?

We turn on a busier street, and begin to see more people, mostly of Asian descent. Political posters for Andrew Yang, with Chinese characters, are everywhere. When we get to the park, there is a dance festival happening—both ballroom and traditional Chinese dancing with fans, and depending where you stand in the park, you can hear music from both.

We talk to a few people in the park, but we know we need to go back to the church by 12:30, so it’s soon time for lunch. To get into the spirit of things, we want to eat food we haven’t tried before. (Cherise jokes she’s never had a real New York bagel.) Amy has been to both China and Thailand, but no has ever been to Tibet, so when we find a Tibetan restaurant, that’s what we settle on.

Lhasa Liang Fen turns out to have delicious food. I order fried dumplings stuffed with beef. When I ask the server for tea, she says, “We have only butter tea. You ever have butter tea before?”

I tell her no.

“I’ll let you taste a little first.” She brings out a thermos and pours me a small amount of milky tea with a faint pink tint. “It’s milk, butter, and salt.”

The butter tea, with a greasy film on top, tastes like warm milk and butter. “It’s like drinking browned butter,” I tell my friends. “I’ll take a cup!” (I think butter tea in Tibet might be made with yak butter, that might not be as easy for me to drink.)

Another patron in the tiny restaurant smiles at us and start chatting. Do we know about Amish? She admires them. We tell her, yes, we come from an area with lots of Amish.

“I’m a Buddhist,” she tells us. “All religions are good, the problem is that people don’t follow them.” I offer her a New Testament, and she happily accepts. “My son can read it.” We give her and two of the restaurant workers backpacks.

In the afternoon, we set off on the subway, hauling a laundry cart full of backpacks.

We go to a park that’s a known spot for day laborers. “They come to the park everyday, and hope that someone will show up to hire them for the day,” Seth explains to us. I give one backpack to gray-haired woman huddled on the stairs leading to the subway. I didn’t have to ask if she was homeless.

At the park, we have no trouble getting rid of the care packages.

Before meeting back at MTC, we walk through Jackson Heights. I’m totally confused by the streets and the subways— as usual, I’m grateful others have a better sense of direction than I do.

At 4:30, we get back on the bus, heading for home. Our bus winds its way through the eternal traffic jams as we drive through the city that seems to just go on and on.

I know that one-day outreach trips like ours are limited in their scope. And that giving handouts— even to destitute people in a city after a year of economical hardship is no long-term solution. Perhaps we had encouraged a few people on their journey. That’s up to God. But one thing did get accomplished: we learned a little more about people who live in a very different world—only a bus ride away.