Prompt 2: Why is community service important in your life?

I always wondered about them. Huddling beneath the eaves of skyscrapers, they are a permanent fixture in the urban landscape. They are nomads. They herd recyclable glass and plastics, wander the asphalt plains of the city. For many, they embody failure. As I stroll through urban streets, I hear parents spin them into edifying tales, “That’s where you’ll end up if you don’t take school seriously.”

One summer, I decided to learn more about them. Through the Internet, I found Dorothy Day House, a homeless shelter in Berkeley. It has been a tradition to return every summer and volunteer there. 

At five o’clock in the morning, I walked inside the courtyard. A flight of stairs on the side led down to a basement. The clang of pots and pans filled the air. “Morning!” Patty chirped. Half of the team was already there—Brandon the bartender, Joanne the Ph.D. student, and Harvey, the one and only. An old radio spilled jazz; the oven radiated warmth; pots of hot cereal steamed. I rolled up my sleeves and prepared to butter bread. At around seven thirty, we drove to a church and began to serve breakfast.

            “Natasha, how are you darling?” Patty held the hands of a woman but her voice glowed with a tender kindness reserved for children. Natasha’s crown of blond hair looked like a messy bird nest. Her face was thin and large vacant eyes stared out at the world like caves, her spirit hidden inside. She wore a hot pink sweatshirt, but dirt and dust had dulled the color. She was still in her pajama bottoms.

            “Good Pattie. I’m doing good.” She rasped out.

            “I heard from Maurice you got a job. Here do you want another plate of pancakes? Let’s celebrate.”

I met others like Natasha. There was Dominique, a black gentleman who spoke flawless French; Manuel and his friends, all of them were still in high school. The people at the homeless shelter have temporarily hit rock bottom. But as the old proverb says, “fall down seven times, and get up the eighth.” Their checkered history meant many doors of opportunity were slammed shut. All of them, for a time, had to rely on stranger’s kindness. Before we judge them to be lazy and incompetent, let us look at our own lives. Haven’t we, at least once in our lives, relied on someone else’s kindness?

When I was young, I believed in fairytales and the happy ending prescribed by children’s authors. I dreamed of loyalty, chivalry, valor and sacrifice. I wanted to be a hero, a knight who triumphed over evil. Two tenets stood at the center of my young universe. First of all the world was divided between good and bad deeds and people, with many more good people than bad ones. Secondly, good always won in the end.

            I do not know when I stopped believing in fairytales or the happy ending, maybe after I moved away from Grandmother. Grandma raised me until I was eight. Pockmarked face and curly silver hair, crinkled lines around her serious mouth, wrinkled hands, the waxy, translucent skin loosely wrapped around those strong hands; those represented years of hardship, endurance and a kind heart. She has always been the moral center of my life. In my eyes, she is no different from a living saint. Never have I heard her tell stories of her kindness. The trickle of information I know comes from grand uncles, aunts and my mom. During the Cultural Revolution in China, many poor people in the countryside suffered. Knowing that they could not afford basic healthcare, Grandma as a nurse gave free treatment to the sick when they had no where to go. She gave away her last winter coat to a poor peasant and had nothing to wear during that bone chilling winter. When the revolution ended and she could go back to the city, villagers who never owned a cent carried out baskets of eggs, homemade meats and pickled vegetables to thank her.

            Grandma’s example made me aware of the importance of giving in a community. Once I moved away from her, childhood seemed to end. The world had been two-dimensional. Now it took on another dimension and jumped out in brilliant colors and complex shapes. The two tenets I believed in fell apart. The world was never divided between good and evil. I saw a spectrum instead. Each tone blending into the next seamlessly. Good people sometimes did cruel things. Bad people sometimes had good hearts. Most importantly, good did not always win. Sometimes, bad things happened to good people.

            I was no longer fighting on the winning side. People who had faith would probably argue that it did not matter, that the ultimate reward came in another world, touched with divinity. I did not know where to place my faith or who I should place it with. Even smiles, that most basic gesture of kindness, became ambiguous, a moral neutral. If growing up means self-discovery, then the hardest part about growing up might be finding the set of morals to live by.

            Volunteering helped me discover my values, even when away from the influence of family. It started with simple things in the community such as making and serving breakfast at a homeless shelter, helping out in the hospital, mentoring a “little sister” at an after school program. For a few hours, I am away from myself and can focus on things that normally do not register on my radar. Volunteering gives me chance to be a contributor, not just a consumer. I feel empowered to make a difference, to know that I can learn and apply skills that benefit not only myself but also another human being. I enjoyed volunteering so much that I joined Do Something and applied to be a Youth Advisory Council member. As a leader in this non-profit, I organize campaigns and encourage my peers to volunteer.

Volunteering can touch not only a stranger’s life, but also the life of a loved one. When my coach who had lime disease announced she was going to India to receive stem cell treatment, I organized a community wide fundraiser to help her pay for the treatment. She is a good human being who has to battle a disease on a daily basis. Life is unpredictable and karma sometimes takes a break. Doing good deeds, random acts of kindness do not guarantee good fortune’s favor. However that does not stop people from loving each other, being kind to one another. Each drop of compassion does not fall on barren ground. Even if nothing flowers, it is enough that we have tried, that we never gave up on the people around us, on ourselves and on this world. Volunteering is not just a nice thing to do once in awhile. Volunteering is essential and necessary to human existence. Because, in the end, we cannot live without relying on others’ kindness. That does not mean we are not independent individuals. It simply acknowledges that the world is increasingly complex, not only from the view of a maturing individual, but for the entire human race. By volunteering, we affirm each other’s existence and the humanity that binds us together.