Category:
Essay Contest
“Hello my name is Grace and these are my siblings Sharon and Eric Li we are trying to raise funds for the earthquake victims in Sichuan China and we were wondering if you would like to make a donation.” I managed to get the whole paragraph out in one breath, no pauses, no inflections or emotion whatsoever.
It came from experience, I suppose you could say.
After at least fifty houses and three hours in the sweltering hot Texas heat, I was ready to just get this over with.
Sure, when I had set out to do this, when I had seen the videos and images of children crushed beneath buildings, grown men struggling to free their families from a mountain of debris, it had touched my heart.
I was going to do something about this, I had vowed. But now it was difficult to remember the raw pain and passion and dedication to making a difference as I rattled off the same lines I had been saying for the past few hours.
In fact, I was amazed that I had even gotten the whole thing out without the door being slammed in my face. It had happened before, but, despite trying to tell myself I was used to the irrational hurt and irritation caused by these people, it stung to realize that in this wide, wide world, I was merely a speck of dust. Unable to change anything, unable to try.
The best method for dealing with these people, I had figured out early on, was to harden my heart, to forget my reason for embarking on this endeavor in the first place and treat my own idea as a grueling task I had been forced upon by the powers that be.
It wasn’t that hard. I just had to close my eyes and forget, block out the images of death and destruction and just…speak. Make my introduction short and fast and without feeling, and, when someone slams the door in my face, to simply not care.
“Um…”
My mind came back to reality, to here and to now, and to the young boy standing at the doorway, his tiny fist clenched. “My parents aren’t home right now,” he began, and I let out a sound between a sigh of relief and a tsk of admonishment. Admonishment because everyone knows you should never, ever open the door for a stranger, even if the stranger in question is a fourteen year old girl dressed in ratty sneakers and a T-shirt, an almost-empty box of cash clutched in one hand and a homemade newsletter in another, and a sigh of relief because at least this child was being polite, and if the parents were home the door would’ve been shut long before I could have reached the part of my introduction in which I explain why, exactly, I was standing outside their house trying to wheedle them out of their hard-earned money.
Then, he opened his clenched fist, and a handful of silver change glimmered in his palm. He handed it to me, and added apologetically, “Sorry I can’t get any more.”
He dug his hands deep into his pockets, searching, and finally came out with two nickels, a dime, and three old pennies. He handed the coins to me as well, and gave me another hopeful smile. “I hope this helps.”
I didn’t mention that it most likely wouldn’t, that, in the grand scheme of things, fifty or so cents would not help the tens of thousands of earthquake victims suffering right now.
Because it was the thought that counted.
It was the mere fact that he decided to empty out all his loose change and give it to a girl he had never seen before, working for a backyard charity that he had never heard about.
It’s been two years since that fateful day.
I do not know that boy’s name. I have long since forgotten which house he lived on, what street, what subdivision. I do not remember his age. I could guess he is now about ten, but it is still a guess. I can faintly recall golden-blonde hair that glittered in the sun, that hot, hot sun that almost made me give up on that day. I no longer can name the amount of money he gave me. Was it fifty-four cents? Fifty-five? Fifty-six?
The details blur. It all runs together, after so long.
But I do remember the utter awe and respect I felt for him, my amazement and his simple apology for not having more. Maybe he’s forgotten as well.
Maybe’s he’s forgotten that one day, two years ago, when he was the source of inspiration for a girl almost twice his age. I haven’t.
Sometimes I think he was six. Sometimes I suppose he was seven, or eight, or nine. But since that day, I have not yet lost hope in the goodness of mankind.
Despite the paltry amount of money we raised that day, despite the long hours spent in the heat that could have been said went to waste, I can’t but believe that that one day has changed my life forever.
One child, who I do not know and can barely remember, has been the reason that I have never stopped believing I could change the world. I wonder, if he could see me now, see us now, what he would think.
It strikes me odd how we never realize how one small thing…can change the course of fate. I have no doubt that if not for that child, I would have long since given up. After countless women with pearls draped around their necks have looked at me and sneered, replied, “Sorry, I don’t have any cash on me,” so many men meandering around telling me that they don’t have time to donate a dollar, so many incidents of utter lack of caring, I have almost lost hope.
And then I think about what I have done so far. Who has helped me get as far as I have. And especially the donation of less than a dollar by a child who could truly see past the facades that we build as we age, and see that we will be the force that shapes our future. Sometimes, all someone needs is a small push in the right direction, a person telling them that yes, you matter, that you can and will make a difference…and I am willing to help.
When I’m on the brink of exhaustion, of hopelessness, of despair, I think of the past, and what I will do in the future.
And I realize that giving up…is not an option.
An old saying goes, “Be the change you want to see in the world.”
I will.
