Student reflections on the value of volunteering
Phoebe Gaston
Issue date: 4/26/07 Section: Opinion
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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.
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.
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