Tremendous Hearts

By John Klyce

You never know just how much one moment can change your life.

2012 had been good to me. After a brutal freshman year of high school, I had

joined the mock trial team, grown in confidence, made new friends, and opened up

my sophomore year. I was for perhaps the first time forging my own identity, and

getting comfortable being who I was at school.

So naturally, after such a successful sophomore year, I expected to follow it

up with a terrific summer.

My mom suggested I spend it volunteering at Saint Mother Teresas local

Missionaries of Charity order, where they run a summer camp for inner city children.

I took heed of my mothers suggestion almost instantaneously, not

necessarily for the children, but for myself. I could see a lot of upsides to this, and I

wasnt about to turn the opportunity down.

Sure, there wasnt any money involved, but who cared?

I was going to get to work with kids, I was going to gain more than a hundred

service hours, and, I was going to forever have the chance to brag about my time

working with inner city children.

Yes, that last part is true, and Im ashamed to say it. The fact that I would be

able to mention working with inner-city kids in a conversation was in my mind

when I started at the camp. And I suspect Im not the only one whos had that

thought.
 Theres an unfortunate phenomena among the middle and upper middle class

in which we sometimes treat service and charity work as a publicity stunt, or photo-

op.

We do good works, but often for the wrong reasons, and because of this our

actions are void of the love and compassion required to truly make a difference.

We also can contain a bit of a superiority complex. We consider ourselves

saviors, working our way into the inner-city, shining a ray of hope into the poors

otherwise dark lives, and then whisking our way back to suburbia.

Of course, I cant harp on people for this too much though, because this was

my sentiment going in.

I expected that I, John Klyce, the East Memphis honors student who had

classically trained in piano and been to Hungary, would come in, provide hope, and

teach these untamed, wild children how to live in a John Keating-esque manner.

That was my expectation, and it was what I assumed would happen. But I

cant tell you just how far from reality my predictions were. For in that summer,

those children aided me more than I could have ever hoped to help them.

My first misplaced assumption came with the childrens morals and attitude. I

expected to find crazy nutcases, kids I would never be able to relate to. But the

children I worked with at the Missionaries of Charity were among the most

imaginative, sweet, and kind-hearted people I have ever known.

Ill never forget Cornelius, who constantly pretended to be a monkey called

Pogo, or Jonathan, whose favorite game to play was teacher. And Ill certainly
always remember Freddie, a 7-year old who stopped a fight before it happened and

told the kids involved to love the people who hate you.

I had fun with them, and as the camp progressed that first summer it ceased

to be volunteer work. I legitimately looked forward to each and every day at the

camp. I began to really care about the kids, and about their lives.

Which is why it is so hard for me to think about what they are up against.

These children have little to no resources. They are being brought up in

rugged environments and poorly run schools. Many are being raised in single parent

households, and some arent being raised by their parents at all.

People tend to make assumptions about those in the inner-city, as I did. They

say that the living situation is their fault, and that those within it who commit crime

are destined to be that way.

But the truth is, no child is born wanting to be a criminal, and no child is born

wanting to commit crime. Every single person, rich or poor, is born good, and with

aspirations.

When we asked the kids at the camp the classic what do you want to be

when you grow up line, none of them said cashiers, and none of them said thieves.

Jonathan wanted to be a dentist. Brandon wanted to be a police officer.

Cornelius wanted to be Spiderman, which seems a little bit more far-fetched. But

hey, thats still someone who wants to help people.

I think about the children at the camp often, and wish there was more I could

do to help. I loved my first summer there, and have my last four summers there as

well.
 As years have passed, Ive seen kids come, go, grow, and change.

When I first encountered Cornelius, he was five. Now he is 10, and growing

closer to an age where negative pressures and influences can be more impactful.

Life could get harder for him, and I only hope his heart remains unblemished from

those who might wish to taint it.

On the last day of camp this past summer, he wrote me a letter and gave me

a small, but meaningful, gift. I was surprised, and wasnt entirely sure what to say to

him. So I grabbed his shoulders, looked him in the eye, and told him this:

Stay focused in school, behave, and always, always, be yourself.