COLUMN: Aftermath of University service

From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '98 From Malik Wilson's, "RosZ," Fall '98I couldn't remember her name. Her photograph was in my hands and I couldn't remember. The picture had been taken on the last day of the program. The building behind her was red with white paint splotches. The black graffiti was unreadable. She sat on the back steps of the school, one arm draped against the railing, the other arm held her tilted head. I saw my fear reflected in her eyes. For 12 weeks we attended class and coordinated an enrichment program at two local middle schools. The girl whose name I couldn't remember was from one of them. Apart from my work at the institute, I was knee-deep in the last summer of my life. Realizing that from now on each summer would have to be devoted to a purposeful undertaking, my friends and I did things 20-year-olds are supposed to do. We spent sunny evenings sitting on large couches on the back porch. We threw an unsuccessful party. We drank more than we should have. Summertime was in full swing and so were we. Headed into my senior year, I pretty much had it made. Grad school? Work? I had difficult choices to make, but at least I had choices. But as the summer grew older, this optimism began to fade. I began to think more and more about the fate of the children a few blocks away who I worked with. In the beginning I had been entirely positive about what I was doing at the institute and the possibilities for change. But what would happen to the children I had gotten to know after I stopped coming every day? Who was the ultimate beneficiary of the work I was doing? When we say to ourselves that maybe our influence on these kids will in some small way change their lives for the better, who are we really talking to? In an attempt to assuage our own grief, we are probably just performing a monologue for ourselves. I still firmly believe that everyone has a responsibility to concern themselves with the plight of those less fortunate and to work toward a just society. I believe in being active in whatever community one happens to live in. But where I once worked with a sense of hopeful optimism, I now work a sense of urgent desperation. The children in the program were bright, gifted kids who wanted to learn. But it didn't give me a sense of hope to see that black children could be academically excellent. I already knew that. We are involved in a war. A war about those who have everything and those who have nothing. The casualties are little girls, whose lives will follow a vastly different trajectory than girls raised 20 minutes away; and young boys, who will enter the criminal justice system at greater numbers than they enter college. After our work at the school was over, a few classes with only the Penn students remained. On the last day, some of my colleagues spoke of the uplifting spirit that had captivated them during the past months. As I listened, I couldn't think of anything to say. As class smiled to a close, we hugged and exchanged phone numbers. We promised to meet again soon, and the sparkling sunny day beckoned us outside. The University of Pennsylvania could accomplish great things. It was a good time to be young and alive. Someone made a joke and even the teacher laughed. As people emptied out of the room I listened to the voices trail away into the evening. Beneath the laughter, a little 11-year-old girl was still waiting. We had lost.