For Volunteers : Volunteer Stories

The 22-Year-Old Grandpa

By Nick Hudson, MercyWorks Volunteer ’07-‘08

I have become increasingly frustrated by the designation of taking a “year off” from school. Home for a holiday weekend to visit my family, I was greeted with the following or a similar question no less than six times in two days: “It must be nice to take a year off and re-charge your batteries, not be forced into writing any more papers, huh?” This question, innocent enough, became a casual and routine part of conversation, usually met with a polite half-smile and non-verbal groan.

I wonder back (sometimes aloud) if they believe I have been passing the days learning to surf in the Caribbean or wandering the streets of Prague to find “myself.” Not that those cannot be enlightening experiences in their own right, depending on the methods and settings an individual needs in order to search in the first place. It’s just not my preferred location of service learning. The snowy environs of West Side Chicago just seem more fitting, for reasons I am only now beginning to understand. The space between the past and the future of my education can at times be an intimidating one: if not taken advantage of in a positive way, there is potential for emotional stasis, the thought that I am simply biding time before a next life move. Luckily for me, this has not been the case. The notion of being “off” is a laughable one.

Whenever I think of this year spent between formal schooling, my thoughts inevitably drift toward Michael, a twelve year-old I currently work with at Chicago’s Mercy Home for Boys and Girls. He’s not unlike a tough boss I had back in high school: holds everyone accountable, challenging, demanding, uneven, and prone to obscenity-laced tirades. My official title to Michael is “Advocate,” a term that means I am essentially his de facto contact person. When there is an issue at school, they call me. When he has a doctor’s appointment scheduled, the time, date, and place are waiting on a note in my mailbox. And when he acts out at the home – an all too-often occurrence – I am held responsible for his behavioral improvement and well-being. The title also means I get the chance to build an especially strong relationship with a young man who needs and craves one.

This relationship was best shown a few weeks ago, when I got to be his Grandpa. Michael currently attends a private school on scholarship located on the North side of Chicago. As a fundraiser, the school invited all “grandparents, family friends, and elderly acquaintances” for a school Mass and brunch, to be followed by a collection for new windows in the gym. Being the closest thing he had to family, that morning I told Michael I’d see him at school, if he could spot me in the crowd. “I’ll be the one wearing a red tie,” I told him, “and under 60.” That morning, he greeted me with a smiling hand slap and hug (which immediately made the 8am hike uptown worth it). We decided it would be best to have an explanatory story. As professional as I had tried to look with my striped tie and polished shoes, I was not about to pass as any kind of “elderly acquaintance.”

To make matters less believable, Michael is African-American and I, thanks to a Chicago winter, am pale-White. We were both silent on the reality of his living in a residential treatment home, but reluctantly decided I would be “a family friend.” As we sat down at our assigned seats in the cafeteria, it became painfully obvious that Michael was a misfit. The other boys chatted with each other, darting table to table and introducing each others’ families to one another. I tried to make small conversation with him, but Michael’s initial enthusiasm seemed lost. Just then, someone from the table introduced himself. “I’m Jack Reynolds,” the man stated, “Bryan here’s my grandson.” “Pleasure,” I countered. I quickly glimpsed across the table to Michael’s face and nodded so fast I don’t think anyone else could realize. “I’m Michael’s grandfather.” I turned back towards my plate and got a swift kick under the table. Looking up, a gentle, brace-filled smile spread across Michael’s face, then mine. “…And NOW for the Window Raffle!” cried the emcee on the loudspeaker. The lights darkened and clapping erupted, but the only sound I cared to hear was that troubled kid’s infectious soprano laugh.

My frustration with the term “year off” reveals itself, like many jobs, in others’ lack of perceived understanding towards the challenges each day brings. The unforeseen absence of a welcoming pat on the back upon returning from a maddening rush hour bottleneck and overall experiences of feeling unappreciated for the labor that has enveloped your life. In lieu of this frustration, this year “off” has become quite the opposite for me: it is a year “on.” I am responsible for writing and handing in reports on time (not unlike the “papers” I am supposedly on vacation from).

I must balance the weight of a child’s feelings on top of the discipline they crave, especially ones like Michael who are so unfamiliar with someone taking an interest in their needs before. I need to rely on co-workers, supervisors, roommates, and even those annoying family members who ask how this year “off” has been, in order to healthily make it through each day. Even when my time stamp reads Clocked Out, thoughts of work are always on my mind, mockingly dancing on my memory. When reviewing this year in the future, I can only think of re-charging my batteries through the misnomer of this time “off,” perceivably away from my or others’ problems. Instead, this has been a year of facing them directly; being able to share them with sincere gratefulness to those interested enough to listen as I go on and on and...