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By Ben Barberie
For fifteen hours this weekend, I peered into the soul of America.
Yeah, I know. Could I have written a weightier metaphor if I tried?
I spent the bulk of my Saturday and the early hours of Sunday morning seated in the familiar red and gray plastic bench seats of my local Waffle House. I knew I would be met with the usual rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, sizzle of eggs and hash browns on the griddle, and clink of newly plated waffles on my table. What I didn’t expect were lessons in community, charity, and consciousness that will stick with me for years to come.
Why spend fifteen hours in a Waffle House? Admittedly, I’ve asked that question of myself in the days following my venture. The idea was birthed from the now-viral Waffle House Challenge fantasy football punishment, wherein league losers are privileged to spend 24 hours at the all-day establishment, subtracting an hour for each waffle eaten.
I set out on an odyssey of my own volition with a philanthropic twist to the challenge. I’ve spent several months this year as a student outreach coordinator for the University of Louisville’s raiseRED Dance Marathon, which benefits patients and funds research in pediatric hematology and oncology. In exchange for providing updates and entertainment via a livestream of my efforts, I asked that viewers consider donating to raiseRED. I expected a modest reception at best, thinking I’d be lucky to raise a few hundred dollars.
To give you an idea of just how long I was glued to my plasticky seat, I had four different waitresses serve me. By the end of the first shift, word had spread among the staff of my endeavor, and many checked in and conversed with me throughout the day.
Three staff members graciously shared with me the stories of how cancer had impacted those closest to them – one waitress had a daughter who endured several operations to remove a brain tumor, and another had a close friend affected by breast cancer. But perhaps the most touching moment of the day came when Andrew, a line cook, sat down with me to talk about how deeply cancer afflicted his family. As the uncle of a child diagnosed with cancer at just eight months old, raiseRED’s mission resonated with him. I was floored when he told me he’d like to donate. I’d known these people for merely hours, and they were being profoundly vulnerable with me. Andrew’s gesture was a moving one that I won’t soon forget.
Sitting in one place for such a long time while life moves about you at its normal, frenzied pace is a bizarre feeling. The slow drip of time becomes almost unrecognizable. Five hours could just as easily be fifteen minutes. In the periods of isolation between the appearances of 38 different visitors, a man is left with his own thoughts. Four cups of coffee may lead to existential thoughts, but they may also lead to the discovery of a limit to the number of times Led Zeppelin’s “Ramble On” can be played through before one’s sanity is lost (it is 8 to be exact).
Watching the stream of people in and out of Waffle House revealed all walks of life. Prior to my arrival, a young family occupied my booth, enjoying a quick breakfast together before beginning their day. The passing hours at the table beside me presented two well-dressed friends returning from a funeral, two couples sharing meals, a gritty biker on a lunch break, and a UPS worker briefly savoring a cup of coffee with an acquaintance before starting his shift.
There’s somewhat of a lore that follows Waffle House restaurants. Maybe it can be said of many or all 24-hour dine-in establishments, but there is an unspoken degree of resiliency to that type of institution. The Waffle House nestled on Preston Highway seamlessly operated long before my arrival, and it will continue to do so well into the future. Its unending march does not abide by the open and closed segmentations of traditional restaurant operation. The stroke of midnight merely brings about the flip of the calendar as a new day begins.
Hell, even the Federal Emergency Management Agency recognizes the black and yellow breakfast chain’s unusual elasticity. The informal Waffle House Index measures the degree of a disaster’s damage in green, yellow, and red based on the restaurant’s menu serviceability and general operations. Hint: damage must be critical for a location to even temporarily close.
If you haven’t done the math yet, I devoured nine waffles during my fifteen-hour undertaking. Sure, a 0.6 w/h (waffle per hour) pace may appear rather pedestrian, but I can assure you the Waffle House staple is deceptively dense. Ingesting somewhere in the neighborhood of 4000 calories and 150 grams of sugar is a blood sugar roller coaster with jittery peaks and comatose valleys. My efforts weren’t wasted though, and I’m unbelievably grateful to share that 56 people helped me raise $1,047 for pediatric cancer treatment – all because of waffles.
So what about that weighty metaphor?
I’m lucky enough to call Louisville, Kentucky my present home. I like to think of Louisville as an outlying island amid diverging American demographics. It is not truly southern, yet not nearly midwestern. A charming city that is neither forcefully cosmopolitan nor flatly sleepy, it is uniquely Louisvillian.
Earlier, I mentioned the walks of life that intersected in the Waffle House on Preston Highway. It is a space with breadth of class, race, education, and religion.
It is a slice of America, a glimpse into its soul.
It remains one of the few places that visibly reminds me of the diversity and vibrancy of those around me.
Maybe your slice of America waits in the decades-old diner down the street, the family-owned bodega on the corner, or the neighborhood park. But all are a reminder of our community. In an era where it has never been so easy to be so far away from those closest to us, I welcome the stimulating cognizance that comes with immersion in community.
Ben Barberie is a McConnell Scholar in the Class of 2021. He is studying political science and economics at the University of Louisville.