Homeless and Hopeless Don't Have to be Synonymous by Kelsey

Homeless and Hopeless Don't Have to be Synonymous by Kelsey - January 2017 Scholarship Essay

When I was young, I always saw people on the side of the road, asking for food or money, maybe a ride. I remember being afraid of them, daring to ask my parents questions about how they ended up like this. “Mommy, why is that man holding a sign?” or “Why are his clothes so dirty?” I’d always get vague, non-committal answers, like “Oh, well, maybe he lost his job, honey.” At five years old, I didn’t understand the world of work, luck, or anything beyond goldfish crackers and early morning cartoons. At five years old, that’s all my reality needed to be, but as I’ve gotten older, and able to read what these people’s signs say, and the messages they want so desperately for everyone to hear, the weight and sadness of it all descends upon the world I thought I knew like a soggy blanket.

For the past decade or so, my grandparents have volunteered once a month at the First Baptist Church downtown. They would slave away for one night to prepare a decent meal for any of the less fortunate that might decide to show up. I never paid much mind to what they were doing. I remember being very young and playing with toys upstairs while all the homeless ate in the sanctuary. Pastor Mark would sometimes teach me to play his guitar. When I was thirteen, though, I decided I wanted — needed — to do something. So, I began volunteering with them.

At first, it was the most intimidated I’d ever been in my life. Announcements were made about needles being found in the bathroom. Only a table separated me from the sometimes vacant, sometimes wild eyes on the other side. Most of them didn’t thank me for the bread roll I put on their plate, some didn’t so much as look me in the eye. I started handing out compliments to those who looked like they needed it. “I love your hat,” I said to the grumpy lady in the wheelchair, three plates balanced in her lap. “What team do you play for?” I asked the little boy wearing the basketball jersey that was too big for him. He had an obsession with the olives. I smiled big for the man who was deaf and mute, and always got a signed thank-you in return. Over time, I got to know all these people and I observed their little quirks and oddities without judgement. They may have seen me just as the hand holding their dinner, passing it off to the person at the condiment table, but to me, they represented the injustice of our world. It made me so sad, but at the same time, it gave me the hope and motivation that maybe I could make the world a little bit better for people in these kinds of situations.

I’ve always loved to help people in need. In my opinion, there’s no one more in need than someone lacking a home or the will to go on, carrying a burden too heavy to hold. Perhaps it’s self-inflicted, through drugs or recklessness. Either way, I firmly believe there’s no such thing as “too far gone.” In my aspirations to be a psychiatrist, I want to help people who think they’re beyond help, and make them see that they’re worth more than they think. There was a man who ate at the church who sometimes came in perfectly sane and civilized. Most times, however, he’d have his hand to his face, talking to the aliens in his head. He believed he was a king born into the wrong life. He had schizophrenia. Needless to say, he wasn’t always able to stay up on his meds. Perhaps this was because he couldn’t afford them. Or perhaps he just couldn’t see the point of burying the effects of a mental illness that labels him an outcast in the world as it is today.

While it can’t be helped that some people will fall through the holes of an imperfect society, I plan on being there for those who want and need someone to listen to them. Sometimes all it takes is listening. Crazy is a chemical that doesn’t stay at a simmer. Eventually, it boils over, and that’s when a future, like a flame, is extinguished. In a roundabout way, the extinguishing of so many futures has set flame to my own. It’s sad, yes, but it makes me glad to think of how many candles I’ll have the opportunity to set afire once again.