Hi guys, this is my personal statement for the "evaluate a significant experience prompt". It stands at 760 words at the moment, so I'd like to cut down at least 100 but the fact that this is a story makes it really hard. I'd appreciate any feedback!
There I stood on a Saturday evening in August, rooted to the cement at the intersection of 2nd and Jackson St. Just blocks removed from the safe part of Seattle, pigeons swarmed around me and homeless people lined the building walls. I was here for the Search and Rescue Van, a program that reached out to the homeless in Seattle, and I would later find out that I was the only teenager ever to participate.
I had located the broken sign saying "Union Gospel Mission Men's Shelter" and yet, I was too scared to make a move. Vagrants lounged around the entrance, and I was nervous that they would try talking to me or worse, mug me. It wasn't until the sun started to set that I finally worked up the courage to walk in and ask about the Rescue Van.
"You're early, kid," said the receptionist from behind a scratched safety-glass pane. "You can either wait here in my office, or out in the lobby."
I walked cautiously into the musty, packed community lobby and settled uncomfortably in a chair next to an unkempt homeless man. Dirty sleeping mats lined the walls. A Christian singer named Dave Irish had stopped by to sing to these people.
I began to relax as he sang "Amazing Grace", and I couldn't help but notice an old man generously offering beef jerky to those around him.
Before long, a few volunteers had arrived. We packed boxes of blankets, socks, coats, sandwiches, and some hot chocolate into the large van and huddled for a prayer. Our driver for the night was Lee, a Navy veteran and recovering crack addict in the Mission's recovery program.
"I want you all to remember that the people you meet tonight are good people who made bad choices," said Lee as we drove to our first location near a river.
We got out and a couple Rescue Van 'veterans' went off rounding up any homeless nearby. Before long, they were at our van, graciously accepting anything we offered them. One of the people we met was a short woman with a black eye named Delilah, accompanied by a man named Wences. I hugged her as she wept: it was explained that some guys had attempted to rape her, and he had fought them off.
"Todo su ropa son de mi," said Wences, gesturing to his body: he had given his clothes for her to wear. We talked for a while and prayed for their safety before heading off again.
Our next stop was under a highway overpass where the expansion joints sounded like drums whenever cars drove over them. Apparently, just beyond the trees was "The Jungle", a place where murders, prostitution, and drug deals occurred but we stopped as we didn't support their activities.
When we left, a new member was with us- a young man named Jeff who wanted to live in the Men's Shelter. For the rest of the night, he poured out his life story and said something I'll never forget: "People out here are tough, but if you just talk to them the right way they aren't so bad."
It was late when we finally finished our work; the clock had struck midnight and I had been transformed. Well, I wish I could tell you that I appreciate my privileged life now, but I still don't- it's human nature. Instead, taking a risk to reach out to the homeless in Seattle, I left with a newfound sense of compassion.
Connecting on a personal level with those we scorn as 'disgusting hobos', I discovered in myself a profound humanistic perspective that has completely altered how I approach life. In our hurried, cynical existences, we often forget that we're all just trying to make our way, and yet if we lay down our pre-conceived notions about each other we'd find a lot of inherent kindness and good as I did that night. That old man in the lobby didn't need to share his beef jerky, but he did. Wences didn't need to protect Delilah, but he did.
Over time, I would get to know other regular volunteers, most being in the drug recovery programs. There's Drew, a 22-year-old meth addict from New Jersey whom most would label as society's problem before crossing the street to avoid him. But behind the tattoos, I see a young man who cares deeply about his girlfriend and desires to reinvent himself.
I am now a young veteran at the Rescue van program, and I can't think of anything I'd rather do on a Saturday evening.
There I stood on a Saturday evening in August, rooted to the cement at the intersection of 2nd and Jackson St. Just blocks removed from the safe part of Seattle, pigeons swarmed around me and homeless people lined the building walls. I was here for the Search and Rescue Van, a program that reached out to the homeless in Seattle, and I would later find out that I was the only teenager ever to participate.
I had located the broken sign saying "Union Gospel Mission Men's Shelter" and yet, I was too scared to make a move. Vagrants lounged around the entrance, and I was nervous that they would try talking to me or worse, mug me. It wasn't until the sun started to set that I finally worked up the courage to walk in and ask about the Rescue Van.
"You're early, kid," said the receptionist from behind a scratched safety-glass pane. "You can either wait here in my office, or out in the lobby."
I walked cautiously into the musty, packed community lobby and settled uncomfortably in a chair next to an unkempt homeless man. Dirty sleeping mats lined the walls. A Christian singer named Dave Irish had stopped by to sing to these people.
I began to relax as he sang "Amazing Grace", and I couldn't help but notice an old man generously offering beef jerky to those around him.
Before long, a few volunteers had arrived. We packed boxes of blankets, socks, coats, sandwiches, and some hot chocolate into the large van and huddled for a prayer. Our driver for the night was Lee, a Navy veteran and recovering crack addict in the Mission's recovery program.
"I want you all to remember that the people you meet tonight are good people who made bad choices," said Lee as we drove to our first location near a river.
We got out and a couple Rescue Van 'veterans' went off rounding up any homeless nearby. Before long, they were at our van, graciously accepting anything we offered them. One of the people we met was a short woman with a black eye named Delilah, accompanied by a man named Wences. I hugged her as she wept: it was explained that some guys had attempted to rape her, and he had fought them off.
"Todo su ropa son de mi," said Wences, gesturing to his body: he had given his clothes for her to wear. We talked for a while and prayed for their safety before heading off again.
Our next stop was under a highway overpass where the expansion joints sounded like drums whenever cars drove over them. Apparently, just beyond the trees was "The Jungle", a place where murders, prostitution, and drug deals occurred but we stopped as we didn't support their activities.
When we left, a new member was with us- a young man named Jeff who wanted to live in the Men's Shelter. For the rest of the night, he poured out his life story and said something I'll never forget: "People out here are tough, but if you just talk to them the right way they aren't so bad."
It was late when we finally finished our work; the clock had struck midnight and I had been transformed. Well, I wish I could tell you that I appreciate my privileged life now, but I still don't- it's human nature. Instead, taking a risk to reach out to the homeless in Seattle, I left with a newfound sense of compassion.
Connecting on a personal level with those we scorn as 'disgusting hobos', I discovered in myself a profound humanistic perspective that has completely altered how I approach life. In our hurried, cynical existences, we often forget that we're all just trying to make our way, and yet if we lay down our pre-conceived notions about each other we'd find a lot of inherent kindness and good as I did that night. That old man in the lobby didn't need to share his beef jerky, but he did. Wences didn't need to protect Delilah, but he did.
Over time, I would get to know other regular volunteers, most being in the drug recovery programs. There's Drew, a 22-year-old meth addict from New Jersey whom most would label as society's problem before crossing the street to avoid him. But behind the tattoos, I see a young man who cares deeply about his girlfriend and desires to reinvent himself.
I am now a young veteran at the Rescue van program, and I can't think of anything I'd rather do on a Saturday evening.
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