The Sense of Community

Sesame Donuts is a family run business at the intersection of Beaverton-Hillsdale and Scholls Ferry. It has been there since I moved to Portland from Detroit in 1986. My mother got a job there when I was very little, probably one of her first after relocating. I remember her bringing home the old donuts from the end of her shift, and while my brother got sick of eating donuts for dinner, I never did tire of the expectation, delight and fulfillment of donuts for every meal and occasion.

I don't know if they remember me from my childhood--surely I will never forget how they always worked hard and happily, giving away donuts and much-desired attention to children like me--but I have just recently been made "cousin." I don't fully know what that means, except that they like me and I love them.

When it was announced that I was cousin, one of the other family members (by blood) asked me, "Why are you a cousin?" She had this look on her face like I was just admitted into the club without the full approval of the board. In order to avoid conflict, I simply smiled (and probably turned red) and gestured to the kindly man who had made me cousin saying, "You'll have to ask him."

I don't think she was offended, just confused. I thought it was a joke, but maybe they're serious about offering cousinhood to customers come in. Or maybe she thought it had something to do with my skin color. The family is middle eastern and I have a tan complexion. Maybe she thought I really was somehow related. I should have told her, it confused me, too.

Upon returning to the store a few days later with my wife and youngest daughter (who was immediately greeted with smiles, hellos and a chocolate glazed donut hole), I relayed the story of having my cousinhood questioned to the gentleman who made the pronouncement. He explained that we are always so easy to help and so nice when we come in. I thought to myself, Really?! How could I not be? I thought everyone who came in here could sense the joy and enthusiasm that permeates this place. The regulars sitting and drinking their coffee with the morning paper, the woman I've seen in here twice with the middle eastern garb that makes the whole donut joint light up with culture. Don't other people feel the smiles on them when they walk through the door?

So I ordered an iced caramel latte and we sat down with our donuts and my drink. An apparent regular, an older gentleman with a blue trucker hat that said "hang loose" with a caricatured finger-and-thumb on the front, was doing a crossword (in pen!) a couple tables away from us. He took immediate notice of our little one. He smiled and told a joke about a little boy eating the half of the donut with the icing on it before sharing the other half with a friend. We laughed.

Just then, the man who dubbed me cousin walked up with a newspaper in hand. I had left it on the counter after reading the headline. He asked if we had forgotten to bring it to the table. I quickly apologised for not having returned it to the news rack. And he stood there, a very serious look across his face. "Oh," he said, "that's fine. Do you want it? 'Cause I will give it to you, if you want it. Do you want it?" He looked intently at the paper, perhaps just reading the headline, but seeming very serious about giving it to me just for the convenience. I refused to take the free paper, but the gesture was so genuine. I should give him this paper. He might want to read it. seemed to be the thought behind his expression.

He returned the paper to the stand for me. The old man doing his crossword said, "He was serious. He would have given you the paper." Yeah, he would have. He put kindness over sales. I know it was only a 35 cent paper, but he wanted to give it away. He had no desire to sell it. It was a beautiful thing that just added that much more desire for community to my being. Something tells me that after seeing them give away so many donuts, and to sell them so cheap, it isn't merely money that keeps it going. It's community.