“You also have the power to change your community,” Yvonne said.
I wasn’t so sure I agreed with her about that. Was it really possible to change things around you—change your environment? So far in my life, I hadn’t experienced that. I couldn’t change my mother. I couldn’t stop men from sexually abusing me. I couldn’t make the bad things I’d done disappear.
“I want to encourage all of you to help others less fortunate than yourself,” she continued.
I didn’t realize there were those who had less than me. In my school, in my neighborhood, I had always been among the less fortunate. But if I met someone who had less than me, I would want to help them because I knew what it was like to suffer. I knew what it was like to wish someone would help me. Yes, I thought to myself, I’d like to meet these people and help them if I can.
As I left the meeting, I felt like a changed person. I wondered if Florence, who had driven us to the meeting, felt the same way. I sidled over to her and nodded my head in Yvonne’s direction. “Isn’t she great?”
“Yeah,” Florence said, “she’s something else.”
“She said some really interesting things—like how we can change our lives.”
This was met with silence. Florence wasn’t exactly a deep thinker, and she clearly wasn’t as taken by Yvonne as I was so I retreated into my own mind. I wanted to talk to this woman. I wanted to get closer to her. I wanted to find out how I could help these people who were less fortunate than me and how I could change my environment.
I was sitting across from Yvonne in her office downtown. I’d had to take two buses after school to get to the YWCA building.
She folded her hands in her lap. “So what do you want to do with your life, Beverly?”
No one had ever asked me that question before. Sure, people had asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, but Yvonne was asking a different question.
“I want to make a difference in the world. I want to do something important.”
Unlike most adults I had met thus far, Yvonne looked at me with real interest. “Well, that’s what I like to hear, especially from a young woman like yourself.” She gave me a warm smile that went straight to my heart.
“Yes, I liked what you said the other night about helping other people. Can you tell me what projects I could get involved with?”
“Well, the Big Sisters program is looking for Big Sisters for the mentally retarded. That might be a place for you to start.”
Yes, I thought to myself. Someone who was mentally retarded was certainly worse off than me. At least I knew I was smart; I couldn’t imagine what life would be like if I didn’t have that.
A few weeks later, I attended a gathering at a park where potential Big Sisters were to meet up with the mentally retarded children who were in need of a Big Sister. I spotted Eileen right away, and she seemed to be drawn to me as well.
Eileen had a wonderful smile. It just radiated. She had Down syndrome—at the time we called it “mongolism”—but all I could see was her spirit. She was the happiest person I had ever met, and she had a contagious laugh.
We sat down on the grass together. Eileen made a mustache out of a blade of grass. She became mesmerized by a ladybug crawling on her hand then her arm.
As we laughed out loud and ran around the park, Eileen brought me back to the joy I only remembered ever feeling as a very small child—the joy I had lost. The sparkle in her eyes brought the sparkle back to my own. She reminded me that life wasn’t just about suffering and surviving pain.
Over the next year, I spent all my Saturdays with Eileen. Her mother told me I helped her feel more like a normal kid—that she was no longer depressed because she didn’t feel as isolated and alone—and thanked me frequently for spending time with her. But Eileen gave me much more than I gave her. She taught me to be grateful for what I had. She helped me to appreciate the beauty around me. She taught me how nature is always there to help us connect with our spirit, our soul.
And most important, she gave me hope. Maybe I could help other people. Maybe by helping others, I could bring some good into this world instead of only creating trouble and causing pain.
I went to the YWCA offices downtown almost every day after school. I couldn’t get enough of Yvonne. I wanted to be around her all the time. I wanted to absorb her. I wanted to become her.
Her door was always open to us and sometimes I went into her office just to blow off steam about my mother and her drinking.
One day, after I’d been going on and on about my mother, Yvonne asked, “Have you ever had counseling, Beverly?”
“No.”
“Maybe we can set up a time each week for you to come see me and we can talk more about all this,” she suggested.
I felt excited. Someone cared about me. Someone wanted to help me.
I started meeting with Yvonne every Tuesday after school. I talked to her a lot about my mother—how her drinking was getting worse and I couldn’t wait to get away from her. I also told Yvonne about the sexual abuse. And then, finally, after talking to her for several months, I told her one day about my suicide attempt after Richard drove off a cliff.
She looked concerned. “I think it is time for me to refer you to someone more qualified to help you,” she said. “I’m a social worker, but I’m not equipped to deal with some of the issues you have—especially the suicide
