Last year, when I was applying for Americorps, they asked me to write about "Why I Serve," and I told them the story of a few of the people I had met during my year in Camden, NJ. A year later, I am confident that I would answer that question the same way. Why do I do what I do? Because of David, Shermere, Tim, Angel...now I can add Cynthia, Jerome, Sydney, Reggie...
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David is your average bum. He looks bedraggled, he's out of work, and he sometimes has to beg for food. One day we decided to invite him into our house for a chat. His story told of a cycle of hardship: he couldn’t pay some tickets he'd received for loitering, so he spent time in jail. While in jail, he lost his job. In general, he has trouble getting work because he has a disability. He gets welfare for his disability, but it stipulates that he cannot work for more than 2 hours a day. The welfare and a 2-hour-a-day job are not enough to support his wife and kids, so he actually has to pretend to be separated from his wife and live in a separate house so she can get single parent welfare, too. David forced me to ask myself to ask some hard questions, and I was faced with the words of Martin Luther King: “Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime. Eventually, though, you’ll want to start asking yourself who owns the pond.”
I had the pleasure of sponsoring Shermere, one of the fifth graders from my after school class, in Urban Promise's annual Martin Luther King, Jr. Speech Contest. Shermere tended to be one of my more difficult disciplinary cases. Helping her to write and rehearse her speech, which required quite a bit of one on one time, worked miracles on our relationship, though. Granted, it wasn’t always fun – getting her to put her thoughts on paper was often like pulling teeth. But she accepted my advice, respected my opinion, and trusted me enough to share with me something she was passionate about. In the end, I was incredibly impressed with her final speech. She talked about the courage of Harriet Tubman to fight for the freedom of others, and her delivery was spot on. She was an imposing presence behind that podium, and I wonder if someday she might not be speaking on behalf of justice in front of a far more influential crowd.
When Pastor Tim preaches, people listen. Because he's spent time both on the street and in the Ivory Tower, Pastor Tim can speak effectively to Ivy League academics and Hip Hop gangsters alike. His sermons are provocative: whether the issue is slavery, sacrifice, or environmental destruction, it is impossible to walk away without being challenged to the core. More importantly, however, his sermons take on life outside the sanctuary walls. When an outspoken community organizer disparaged him in the local paper, Pastor Tim met the man for lunch. Soon the two were partnering to start an alternative school for high school drop-outs, and I was invited to help as a tutor. A few months later, we all exchanged teary hugs when several of our drop-outs were accepted into college! Pastor Tim has shown me the beauty that comes from practicing what you preach.
Cynthia has had the cards stacked against her since she was a little girl. Both of her parents were alcoholics, and she was essentially left to parent herself. As a child, she had trouble fitting in, and she was sometimes destructive for no reason. She began drinking at age 10 and using drugs at 16. When she was 12 years old, Cynthia became pregnant by rape. She had to raise a child while still a child herself. Not surprisingly, these pressures drove her further into addiction and violence. Before long, she had six children and found herself in jail, unfit to care for any of her kids. Thus the cycle of poverty bulldozed ahead. On the day she was released from prison, Cynthia was told she was HIV positive. Devastated, desperate, and tired, she checked into rehabilitative housing. She laid her dignity aside and asked for help. That tiny act of courage was Cynthia's saving grace, and now she is almost two years clean, has an undetectable viral load, and is on her way to earning her GED. Anyone privileged enough to look into Cynthia's kind eyes and be greeted by her soft-spoken "hello" today would never guess that underneath them was a shocking resilience, a woman broken and rebuilt, and a share of burdens and blessings well beyond her years.
