Student reflections on the value of volunteering

By: Phoebe Gaston

Posted: 4/26/07

On the right-hand side of a short cul-de-sac between the Phi Psi house and Ferncliff Hall sits a house. Half of this house has colorful, puffy interior walls painted with fingers and stitches, and a bathroom stacked to the ceiling with boxes that contain green yarn, strips of construction paper, googley eyes, brown lunch bags, Crayola markers, plastic beads and rainbow glitter. Its kitchen is stocked full with "Outrageous Orange" juice and vanilla crème cookies. The people in the front room know your name because they remember what color toenail polish you wear.

It is inside this half of a house that valuable lessons for Springfield children are planned. It is in this space that a summer camp is born every year, a camp which shows children the difference between fighting and conversation, between caring and loathing. It is the Springfield Peace Center, 224 West College Avenue, between a Springfield home and a frat house.

You wander in the first day with a messy ponytail and unshaved legs. You ask the directors what time you should come back to catch a ride to the peace class, and you promise to be showered and dressed appropriately by then.

"Oh, honey, you don't have to dress nice for these kids," says one director, nose scrunched. "You'll see." You immediately wonder about the children you will soon meet. What exactly did you get yourself into?

You come back later (showered, nonetheless) and ride to the peace school. It is across the parking lot from a stack of apartments that looks like a worn out motel. Rows full of doors that shake open and slam shut are filled with residents smoking and talking, many with babies on their hips. A police cruiser is parked in the lot next to the school.

The teacher asks you to walk around and knock on doors to ask parents if they're sending their kids to peace class today. You knock on one door and a man with no shirt and a cell phone at his ear tells you his "kids ain't home yet." Another knock warrants a teenage voice that hollers, "I ain't 'posed ta answer no knockin. Friends'll jus' walk in." You head back across the parking lot after a few more doors, defeated, and the police officer waves you toward his car.

"Don't ever walk around there alone. I'm serious," he warns. You can't help but quiver.

Inside the peace school, a boy rocks back and forth in his seat as the teacher goes through five "I-Care" rules.

"Always listen when other people are talking to you," she reads. "Does anyone know what that means?"

Immediately, one child shouts, "It means shut up!" He adds, "DJ hit me on the head today."

Another child pipes in, "Yeah, he smacked you upside your face!" They both laugh. The teacher tries to continue.

"Good, it means to be quiet when others are talking so that you can hear what they say," she says. One child mimics her. Another laughs. A little boy tells the mimicker that he talks "like a baby." He stops mimicking.

The teacher is reading I-Care Rule number two. A little girl stands up and digs through the "prize" box. The teacher tells her that she is not following the I-Care Rules. The laugher laughs. The rocker rocks as he tells a story about his dad fighting. The little girl starts making herself a cheese cracker. The rocker snatches the cheese out of her hand.

"Let's go outside and play a game with the ball," the teacher finally decides, exasperated. Every child stands, screams, and runs outside.

The game is a tossing contest. Each child must say "May I please have the ball?" before it is tossed to them and "Thank you" once they get it, or else they have to sit out. It works surprisingly well until a lone child walks over from the apartments and grabs hold of the fence around the area, shaking it with full force. He is probably about five years old, blonde with sharp blue eyes, and is baring his teeth, growling. You walk over and try to ask him if he wants to play the ball game, but he just lowers his head and shakes the fence harder. You go back and ask the children if they know his name.

"That's Fat Boy," announces one boy. "He kills cats."

You gasp and quote an I-Care Rule: "We don't give each other put-downs," you lecture, and you ask another child for the fence-shaker's name.

"Fat Boy," this student reassures you. "His mom named him that when she left him here." You look at the teacher, who shrugs, continuing the game. Another teacher agrees, telling you that she's only ever heard him called "Fat Boy." You watch as Fat Boy, fists clenched, stomps back across the parking lot,picks up a beer can, and throws it, growling, into the street. Another tutor tries to play with him, but he just howls and runs away.

You go back to the ball game, where the kids are now racing back and forth, partnered, with a ball between their elbows. They are giggling and smiling. The boy that "talks like a baby" cheats, holding the ball with his hand instead of his elbow. The college tutors all laugh because it's so cute. Some children are drawing peace signs on the sidewalk with chalk. Fat Boy is kicking something in a yard in front of an apartment across the parking lot. Another tutor chases him, and he finally squeals instead of growling, taunting her when she gives up. You compliment a young boy on his excellently-shaped, colorful peace signs.

You wonder, when the hour ends, if the little boy's parents really named the growler Fat Boy. You wonder if that's why he's angry, or if it's because she left him there in the rickety apartments, alone. You want to take home the child who proudly told everyone his dad punched his friend. You want to tell the child who talks like a baby that it's okay.

But you don't do anything. You don't know what you can do, what you should do. You just watch, listen, and try your best to love. You enjoy the smiles and squeals and ignore the shaking fence. And at the end of the hour, you ride back to the half of a house where you know the next peace class will be planned, you fill out some paperwork to keep track of the hours you spend fulfilling your "social responsibility," and you wait for next week, for another chance.