Her brown eyes look warmly down on me and they are so shiny it looks like they’re smiling. I suddenly realize she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.
“Do you want a free energy-efficient light bulb?” I say, gesturing dramatically and pointing to the light bulb case in my hand, trying to ignore the mercury warning on the side.

The eyes now look confused.

Emma pushes me aside and approaches the women, explaining our random early Sunday appearance in broken Spanish, repeating again “gratis, gratis.”

The lady smiles, finally she understands. She takes the light bulb and our Spanish information packet about green energy and closes the door, just after a little black head peeks out at us from beneath her skirts.

I wink at Emma. Four more light bulbs to go. It’s April 22, Earth Day, and our chosen project through the Center of Community Service is to distribute free-energy efficient light bulbs to one of the poorest districts of Walla Walla: the “squatter town.”

According to our project organizer, the residential neighborhood right outside of the penitentiary has a reputation of holding spouses and families of inmates, waiting for their release. Bucking stereotypes of prison neighborhoods like this one, many in this neighborhood are simple and kind home-owners.

There was no denying that every resident of the district was poor. The houses were small and had old house paint, weeds, cheap lawn furniture, beer cans or plastic toys strewn over modest yards. Most windows were cracked, repaired only by shiny silver duct tape or sheets of butcher paper. One house even had a sofa made up of old car seats (seat-belts still intact) torn, no doubt, from some abandoned vehicle at a local land-fill.

What was weird was the intense benevolence and cordiality I felt from every resident we communicated with. They always opened their doors beaming and took the light-bulbs and information packets, even when they had no idea what we were saying or why we were intruding on a Sunday morning. Many said things like “God bless you” and “Take care” every time we left. And it wasn’t the hippy-dippy, I’m-just-saying-this-so-you’ll-get-out-of-my-hair kind of way, but a sincere and cordial goodbye. A number of the houses also had signs such as “Love,” “God bless America” and “We can do this” posted in their yards. I distinctly remember two houses having the same faded sticker of Mother Mary on the door frame.

But their situation was by no means rays of sunshine. Sometimes when we knocked on the door, younger kids opened up and looked at us with distrust…or fear. I had no idea where their parents were. I still remember the red, ruddy face of one young boy who answered the door after we knocked, heard some kind of muffled “cominwe’rebusywait,” knocked again, and nearly bolted after a voice screamed, “Jimmy GO ANSWER the F*****’ DOOR!” Emma was the one who managed to keep her head and gave Jimmy a light bulb and an informational packet.

Sometimes when we knocked on the door, no one answered: or would answer ever again. One lady told us that the man of “that house on the corner died there two weeks ago, bless his soul.” There were several houses like that. They didn’t have any residents.

It was the people that were there who wanted to share their stories with us who affected me. That day when we left and returned to the warmth of Whitman, I actually felt like we might have done something. Energy-efficient light bulbs aside, the experience of communicating with these people changed me. If they could be so happy, so content under such conditions…why…what the hell was I worrying for?!

Bike down Boyer, take two rights, cross the railroad tracks under the highway and it’s a whole different ball game…but it’s worth seeing.

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