Our Lives... and Theirs by Aaron

Our Lives... and Theirs by Aaron - May 2018 Scholarship Essay

As anyone who has walked the streets within this state can tell, the homeless population in California has gone rampant as the economy seizes the lives of more and more victims each day, chews them up, and spits them out on the sidewalk with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a shallow promise of a meal the next day. I never knew too much of what it was like living as one of the hindered--my parents have kept me away from that curiosity all my life--so I wanted to witness it first hand, and see exactly what type of impact I can have on their lives if I try to help their condition. So I went with my school club to volunteer at Father Joe’s Village, a homeless shelter here in San Diego, to see just what have I been shielded from this whole time, to see what daily terrors are experienced by the homeless on the streets of downtown San Diego as the people like me are protected from these terrors within the safety of our homes.
When we arrived at the shelter, the first unusual image that caught my eye was what lied on the streets surrounding the place--rows of tents, and the homeless residing in every last one. This sight left me struck with perplexity, because here I was thinking that a tent was only used to protect people from the forces of nature while they were camping, but then a sudden realization occurred to me--they are using those tents for the same purpose, except they’re not camping; they’re living. Despite such a sight being literally right in front of me, it still seemed unfathomable to me the reality of having to live under those conditions, and at that moment, I realized that I wanted nothing more than to help in getting them out of those tents and liberating them from their poverty shackles, so I walked in to that shelter with the rest of my club members, ready to take on whatever task they had planned for us.
The jobs they had us do were just purely cafeteria work: a few of us were assigned to work the kitchen, and the others to work the floor, collecting orders and attending to the disabled and elderly homeless. I was on the floor as they needed my help to set up tables and pull in wheelchairs if any of the disabled needed help with that. When the homeless entered, the floor quickly filled up with tasks for us to do every second of every minute--things got chaotic quick, but I still had some questions I wanted answers to, so I tried to build relationships, and, despite all the action that kept most of the floor workers from spending any more time with a single customer than necessary, I still felt the need to do so. I greeted them, asked them how the food was, and asked them whatever else I could learn about them without getting too personal, but I was only able to do that for about half an hour because eventually the floor got so crowded and turned into such pandemonium that I and a few others began working a job of what felt like two people’s worth. Despite being understaffed, we still made it through the three hour shift, from six to nine o’clock, and afterwards what was in reality only feeding 250 people felt like we just fed a whole stadium; one can only imagine how exhausted we were, but it felt great that we made a difference in the lives of others that day, even if it was only one meal.
After that experience, what I brought back with me was a greater appreciation of what comforts I am guaranteed everyday, yet this feeling of guilt that I’m living a life of opulence compared to the life of poverty the homeless are jarring to sustain themselves through each day. Now, I always can’t help but think: when I go home and am always expected to see food in our fridge, I always stop and think, “do the homeless have the same luxury of being guaranteed a meal every day, let alone a fridge in their possession?” When I go to bed every night, knowing that the same darkness that shrouds my room also dominates the light around our poverty-stricken residents, I always stop and think, “while I’m basking in the comfort of my three layers of bed sheets and while my head rests on a cushioned throne of two pillows, what is considered a bed in the language of the homeless? A bush? A pile of old trash and filthy clothes? Or simply a barren, oil-stained, cold concrete sidewalk?” These thoughts have plagued my mind more times than I can bear, just knowing that every second that I’m living my life in comfort as everything I could possibly need is routinely placed in my hands, the homeless outside our doors are fighting an endless, spartan-like battle against the wilds of our streets, remaining utterly powerless in their fight. So now, as a result of what I learned from that visit, I try and visit the shelter every week to help out with the kitchen, because taking part in promising the homeless a meal on that night of every week is a feeling I will always cherish.