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November
2003
RADIO INTERVIEWER in
Texas recently asked me, "How do we know that our positive
actions will make any difference at all?" The program was
live so I had to answer on the spot.
I swallowed hard and replied, "We don't know." Pause. "But
that's not the point," I added. I grasped for a paraphrase
of Václav Havel's wonderful words: "Hope is.... not the
conviction that something will turn out well, but the
certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it
turns out."
The host's question wouldn't leave me alone after the
radio show ended. Nor would Mr. Havel's words. I want the
things I work for to "turn out well," but hope doesn't
follow my tidy agenda.
I'm learning this the hard way in my own small efforts
toward making a positive difference. For three years, I've
been mentoring Amy* through Big Brothers Big Sisters. As
we've swum and watched movies, kayaked and cooked, talked
and played with my cat, we have slowly woven a bond at
once delicate and tough. She teasingly calls me a nature
freak and tries to talk me into watching shows like The
Bachelor and Crime Scene Investigators so I will have a
better grip on the real world. I laugh and listen and map
out plans I think will help guide her toward self-worth
and success. It's only now that I'm beginning to see that
I was operating under the delusion that I had all the
answers--or at least some pretty good ones.
So when Amy told me she'd always wanted to learn the
violin, I offered to pay for her lessons if she worked
hard to improve her grades. We drafted a contract together
and both signed it. The lessons went well for a few
months, and at the end of the school year, she showed me
her report card, a solid column of A's and B's. But not
long after, she decided to quit the violin. A few of her
grades dropped the next quarter. I felt like I'd failed.
Then I decided to try to teach her about saving money. I
hooked her up with a lucrative babysitting gig on the
condition that she'd deposit most of the money in a
savings account instead of spending it on clothes. She
took the job but told me, "My family said they'd handle my
finances." Strike two.
Last year, in the middle of eighth grade, Amy needed to
pick a high school from among several in the area. When
she told me that she wanted to go to the alternative high
school so she could get into a good college, I thought,
Great. Here's something I can help her accomplish. I
coached her on her admissions essay as we sat at my
kitchen table eating pizza. By the end of the evening, she
had written, by herself, an articulate essay on dealing
with predators in Internet chat rooms. I felt so proud of
her when she read the essay aloud, her voice confident and
strong. Finally, it seemed, my efforts might be paying
off.
A few days later, Amy told me, "I decided I don't want to
go to that school. I want to be with my friends." And so
she chose the less rigorous school. Foiled again.
Every plan I've made to "help" Amy has failed. When this
finally dawned on me, I felt stupid and naïve. What had I
helped her accomplish during our three years together?
Not much, it seemed--at least until last summer. I was
driving to dinner with a friend when I saw a tall, pale
girl walking a rottweiler down a lonely stretch of wet
road. It was Amy. We hadn't seen each other for a few
weeks because she had moved out of town to live with her
mom. I rolled down the window and introduced her to my
friend. We chatted a little and then drove on.
The next day, Amy and I had lunch together. "It was so
amazing that you drove by last night because I was
thinking about you," she said.
"What were you thinking?" I asked.
"Well, she said, "there were all these little snails all
over the road. I decided to pick them up and move them so
they wouldn't get run over. When I was done, I thought,
Hey, this is something Kim would do."
In that moment, my sense of failure vanished--along with
my agenda, which wasn't what Amy needed anyway. The way I
can make a difference in her life can't be plotted or
measured because the only thing I can give her is the
unadorned offering of my company.
From her new town, Amy e-mails me funny, lively dispatches
about her adventures in ninth grade. And this just in: she
plans to apply to a more challenging high school next year
because she wants to be an astronomer.
I'll haul out our telescope on her next visit so we can
admire the moon's mysterious face and explore the stars.
No plans beyond that. Amy is growing into a strong, savvy
young woman with her own agenda. Regardless of how it all
turns out, simply sharing time with her, as Václav Havel
suggests, makes a great deal of sense.
Amy said, "You can write about me anytime" when I asked
her permission to tell this story. I've changed her name
to protect her privacy.
Kimberly Ridley
Editor, Hope Magazine
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