reflection on the value of volunteering

Hi. Sandy here.

So, I've been thinking a lot lately, just in my life in general, about the point of service and volunteer work. Is it about the work accomplished? Does the intention behind it matter? Is it about how it makes me feel? And how do you face the questions of its significance when it feels like you're doing such a small part of something so big?

As we've been here, I've found myself and others wondering... does this really matter? All our efforts, what do they amount to? What if the weeds grow back? Will anyone ever end up living here? ...and trying to weigh the significance of our work when there is so much left to be done in a problem of infrastructure in which everything is so interdependent.

We're only making a dent, really, when you look at the work itself in the context of this whole disaster. But as I've interacted with people, and as I processed in an intense and provocative discussion with van-mates on the way home last night, I've been playing with the idea that service is not just about the physical work accomplished, but it's the act of doing it that often times carries the most intense and important meaning.

We met a guy at his home yesterday afternoon-- his name is Robert Greene. He lives in a trailer with his family in a yard a block away from the street we've been blazing through clearing. He told us about his experiences in Katrina, huddled on the roof of his house with his mother, children, and grandkids. He told us about his neighbors which he hasn't seen in a while, and about efforts to reestablish community. He is a client of Brad Pitt's Make It Right program (which is building 150 eco-friendly, sustainable homes for residents of the lower 9th ward), and his house is going to be started very shortly.

He told us the story of his struggles, but focused on the hope that he has, brought by all the efforts to rebuild. He told us happily how much it means that "all y'all" are coming down here. He's spoken to a lot of volunteers, he said, as they've passed through the area. He told us that people wonder whether what they're doing has any meaning or is really making a difference, but more than anything, it proves to the people down here that they have not been forgotten. That the country is thinking about them, that people care. He quoted a movie, of which one of the final lines was something along the lines of "we want our country to love us back as much as we love our country." And even though, he said, President Bush may not be on their side, the flow of groups that come down here for a week at a time proves that the country does love them. And that gesture of comfort and giving, I think, is one of the biggest benefits of and points behind the act of giving.

I thought about what it would be like for me-- what if Massachusetts were washed away? There's the shock, the disorganization, the need to clean and clear and get back on one's feet. But I think in a lot of ways what I would need most would be a hug-- people there, and to not be in it alone. And I think that's what service does: forge connections, and unite people together against hardship.

In that way, I think "service" is sort of an artificial term. Because it's never one-way like the name implies. It really is about connection, and when truest and most meaningful that is inherently a two-way street.

Which brings me back to Kiln.
a little background for anyone who doesn't know:
this is the second year of the down-south Katrina trip. Last year the school took a group of about 50-ish to Kiln, a rural town near the coast of Mississippi, the area where the eye of the hurricane itself hit most directly. We worked in smaller groups of 6 or so, each on different individual projects according to how Camp Coastal (where we stayed) organized us.

I, with the 6 other members of my minivan, worked digging a trench for septic pipe for a guy named Rick. He is truly one of the most generous, giving guys I've ever met. Despite all he'd been through, I never once heard an ounce of self-pity in his voice, and truly all he thought about was us. He would shout our names at random from across the yard, just to make sure he knew them, and I remember being amazed at his recall: he could recount ever group that had come to work on his house, telling us where they were from, what school and state, and stories about their dynamic work.

I remember one day he brought out a big variety box of 30 ice cream bars-- "Now that's enough for 3 a piece," he said. "Eat up, gotta do your share." (And we all gladly did after a day of digging in 105 degree heat index). The week was filled with instances like that-- all he thought of was us. And on the flight home I remember thinking that I felt like I'd gotten so much more out of the trip than I'd actually done for him.

Anyway, to bring this back to the present:
last night a group of us who had been on the trip last year went back to Kiln. I'd been in touch with Rick last week, and we'd set it up for him to expect us. Marco, Robin, Nora and I (who had been with him last year) hung out with him for a bit first while the rest of the van toured around Pearlington and Waveland, revisiting their own familiar sites, and then the other 10 people came to join up with us and spend the warm, breezy evening on Rick's porch.

Things look great, by the way-- last year he was living in a trailer, and a group from Maryland was inside his house for a few days, which was completely bare with wooden studs for walls and a cement floor. Now it looks like something fresh out of Trading Spaces-- the rooms are warm, painted, furnished, each with their own personality. It's absolutely a beauuutiful home. (But still a work in progress, he says. Even as we were arriving, a truck pulled into the driveway to deliver his kitchen table. And though he's been living in the house for the past few months, the FEMA trailer was only hauled away yesterday.) It's all accumulated, bit by bit, as it comes.

Anyway, it was great to see him. I remember writing in the article I wrote for the Centepede (CA's student newspaper) last fall, after describing our incredible week of team bonding, laughter, and his endless generosity, that I only hoped he got as much out of our week of connection as we did.

But talking to him last night, he made it clear that he had.

We chatted for a while, about volunteering in general and the situation of the people in the area. What was it like? Is it hard having things happen so haphazardly, with such an inconstant flow of workers who are only ever here for a week at a time? But he explained how much the love and support of other people meant. Compassion is one of the biggest healers, he told us.

He went on later to describe his own life. He wasn't in such a good place this time last year, he said-- not just literally in his lack of possessions, but mentally, coping with loss and shock and trying hard to look upward. But I remember how excited he was about our one little trench: Marco recounted the last afternoon when he went to Camp Coastal and got his friends there up from behind the office desks to drive on over to see our work. He said yesterday how that week gave him a lot of hope, how watching and being with us inspired him and changed his life as much as we said it's changed ours.

And I was so glad to hear that, and thought a lot about its significance. That's incredible. We left feeling so invigorated and taken care of, and I was glad to know he had received something as valuable from our interaction. That's the two-way part of connection, that the description of "service" and "giving" doesn't necessarily connote.

We talked on the way home, about a lot of these things. What is service? Why does it matter? What part of it matters?
I've been wondering also, lately, about the concept of scale. I think everyone wants to be the superhero: there's so much hate and misfortune and poverty and hunger and huge-scale problems across the face of the planet. There's so much to do. I want to save the world. I think that's ingrained in our heads ever since we were kids watching Superman running around on TV with his underwear on the outside of his pants.

But really, I don't think it works that way. Every inspiring story I've ever heard or read or seen about anyone's life being changed has always been about the personal: it's about one individual school being built, or a center founded, or the sex ed programs in Africa one of our recent assembly speakers has been working on, or the personal stories of street children another recent assembly speaker told of his time spent in Bolivia.

There are so many widespread problems: poverty, hunger, HIV/AIDS, or the rebuilding of the Lower Ninth. I want to be able to attack these on the scale that the problems are ravaging the world. I want there to be policy that can fix it. But I'm one person... and everyone affected by these issues are also one person (there are lots of these one persons, but each one is an individual). And that's why I think the only way TO confront these problems is on that individual, person-to-person level-- on a human scale.

Which is part of what makes it so daunting: there's so much to do, but all I can do is touch lives that I actually can touch, face-to-face-- the people that I interact with and see and share compassion with. But when you look at it on that level, it gives you perspective: I'm not trying to rescue the whole world, but one person's. And that maybe is more easily accomplished, if not also more effective and real. I can see and hear and feel and touch. And going back last night to visit Rick: standing over the ground where we knew there had been a pipe, but where the grass has since grown up so completely... walking over the spot where Rose had hacked determinedly through the tree's enormous root to clear the path... that was great. To know we'd physically been here and changed the place. But then talking to Rick, hearing him recount his experiences with Katrina to the people who hadn't met him last year, and talking about the hope he had received during that week last June, that was more amazing. And I'm thrilled to know our connection touched him as much as it touched all of us.

And I guess that's the way it should be. As I'm looking back on people that have touched my life, it's rarely a one-way event. I think of relationships and friendships without definition or boundary. And I think I've hopefully been an important part of their lives too-- there are pain and suffering and issues and problems in the world, and all we can do is know that we're in it together, and be their to support each other as people when times call for it. Doing good in the world doesn't have to be a pointed effort: "here I go to serve someone in need!" It extends to how you live your every day-- holding doors, sharing smiles with people you pass in the halls, and extending a hand and asking how someone is when you see them in need. (I've seen those things even in the last week amidst our group: watching people sit with others the may not talk to so much to share a Gatorade break, or noticing and asking how someone is feeling if they're looking a little flushed). It's all about the connections we forge in our own daily existence, and in efforts like these: to come down South to a place that is not our own, and taking care of it like it is and the people like they are our neighbors and friends. Just as much as the weeds we're whacking are saving these individuals $100 a month, Rick is right: it's compassion which can let people know they're not alone, and which can give people the hope and the strength to rebuild.



Sorry that is really long, unedited, and probably a little incoherent and disorganized. But those are I guess some thoughts I've been having lately about all of this. Hopefully it was interesting, but typing it out and reflecting was definitely helpful for me as I'm processing it and thinking through it.

Have a nice night everybody,
-Sandy