I have a few reservations about the clarity of my message and whether or not I should extend the conclusion (is it too vague?)
Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read!
"I don't feel so good..."
The haggard man before me seemed so out of place amid the straight cut corners and polished marble flooring that dominated the lobby. As I looked up at his pallid face, the odor of dried vomit cut through the air to burn my nostrils.
"Do you need help sir? What's-"
The man collapsed before I even had a chance to finish my sentence.
It was near the end of sophomore year, and volunteering at a hospital was still a new experience for me. At 16, I was the epitome of that wonderfully overused stereotype of the youthful teenage idealist, becoming involved in countless social issues and debates. In my free-time, I mailed in countless bill ideas to my state representative and handed out informational flyers about the working conditions of recycling camps in the third world. Meanwhile, I nurtured the notion that I was some modern day Upton Sinclair, exposing the repugnant state of the social fabric. These delusions of grandeur instantly vanished when a friend showed me, of all things, a Family Guy clip. It was an episode where Quagmire criticized Brian for espousing progressive views without ever having seen poverty firsthand. Although she obviously meant it as a tongue-in-cheek jab, it nonetheless raised serious questions for me. I knew that my voice was being heard clearly through my dissenting opinions in the classroom and my activism outside it, but what was the point when that voice was based solely on second hand sources?
And so, I found myself at the front desk of Condell Medical Center for a not-so-selfless cause. I desperately wanted to prove to myself that my opinions were relevant, that my grand social ideals could apply to the real world. A hospital seemed the perfect place to reaffirm my views, allowing me to give my aid and support to people in need of it from all walks of life. The stifling atmosphere, however, would prove to be an obstacle. Everything had to be part of a system, with countless numbers and codes to prepare for any situation. That reasoning reminded me of my father, who was always chiding me for keeping my head in the clouds rather than being firmly planted in careful planning. His lectures were still ringing in my mind as I strained to pull up a wheelchair from storage.
"How in the world could I have planned for this type of situation?" I asked myself. I tried brushing this thought aside as some of the visitors helped me haul the sick man onto the wheelchair. All eyes were focused on me for direction. It was 8:30 pm, and most of the hospital staff had already left for the night. To make matters worse, my supervisor, Mr. Schultz, had just left the building to drop off a package at the lab. The panic in my mind was growing fast. "Think, think!" I told myself as I started down the hall. I stopped in mid-stride and turned quickly, remembering that the route inside would be longer because of the construction. I entered through the emergency room doors in a blur, frantically explaining to the attending nurse what had happened. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, my ordeal was over.
On the drive home, I was still in shock. In that moment of critical action and decisiveness, my higher minded goals had done nothing to guide me. That realization jolted me out of my detachment to notice the problems that had been in plain sight all along; the immigrant families who came into the hospital with checks and came out with tears, the student at the next table who ate crackers because he could not afford a real lunch. These were the things that I should have been focusing on, rather than simply wistfully hoping for the world to change overnight. Looking for a grander form of social justice shouldn't mean ignoring these smaller rips in our social fabric; it is only by mending these rips that I can approach it realistically, one problem at a time.
Anyways, thanks for taking the time to read!
"I don't feel so good..."
The haggard man before me seemed so out of place amid the straight cut corners and polished marble flooring that dominated the lobby. As I looked up at his pallid face, the odor of dried vomit cut through the air to burn my nostrils.
"Do you need help sir? What's-"
The man collapsed before I even had a chance to finish my sentence.
It was near the end of sophomore year, and volunteering at a hospital was still a new experience for me. At 16, I was the epitome of that wonderfully overused stereotype of the youthful teenage idealist, becoming involved in countless social issues and debates. In my free-time, I mailed in countless bill ideas to my state representative and handed out informational flyers about the working conditions of recycling camps in the third world. Meanwhile, I nurtured the notion that I was some modern day Upton Sinclair, exposing the repugnant state of the social fabric. These delusions of grandeur instantly vanished when a friend showed me, of all things, a Family Guy clip. It was an episode where Quagmire criticized Brian for espousing progressive views without ever having seen poverty firsthand. Although she obviously meant it as a tongue-in-cheek jab, it nonetheless raised serious questions for me. I knew that my voice was being heard clearly through my dissenting opinions in the classroom and my activism outside it, but what was the point when that voice was based solely on second hand sources?
And so, I found myself at the front desk of Condell Medical Center for a not-so-selfless cause. I desperately wanted to prove to myself that my opinions were relevant, that my grand social ideals could apply to the real world. A hospital seemed the perfect place to reaffirm my views, allowing me to give my aid and support to people in need of it from all walks of life. The stifling atmosphere, however, would prove to be an obstacle. Everything had to be part of a system, with countless numbers and codes to prepare for any situation. That reasoning reminded me of my father, who was always chiding me for keeping my head in the clouds rather than being firmly planted in careful planning. His lectures were still ringing in my mind as I strained to pull up a wheelchair from storage.
"How in the world could I have planned for this type of situation?" I asked myself. I tried brushing this thought aside as some of the visitors helped me haul the sick man onto the wheelchair. All eyes were focused on me for direction. It was 8:30 pm, and most of the hospital staff had already left for the night. To make matters worse, my supervisor, Mr. Schultz, had just left the building to drop off a package at the lab. The panic in my mind was growing fast. "Think, think!" I told myself as I started down the hall. I stopped in mid-stride and turned quickly, remembering that the route inside would be longer because of the construction. I entered through the emergency room doors in a blur, frantically explaining to the attending nurse what had happened. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, my ordeal was over.
On the drive home, I was still in shock. In that moment of critical action and decisiveness, my higher minded goals had done nothing to guide me. That realization jolted me out of my detachment to notice the problems that had been in plain sight all along; the immigrant families who came into the hospital with checks and came out with tears, the student at the next table who ate crackers because he could not afford a real lunch. These were the things that I should have been focusing on, rather than simply wistfully hoping for the world to change overnight. Looking for a grander form of social justice shouldn't mean ignoring these smaller rips in our social fabric; it is only by mending these rips that I can approach it realistically, one problem at a time.