Rashad Brown-Mitchell, Fenway High, Boston, 2020
Packages of green Heineken bottles populated the carpeted basement like books in a library. Teeth like yellow crayons, small and fragile frames, sluggish and clumsy movements, and a lingering stench of smoke characterized my uncles. Sounds of laughter alongside obscenities echoed off the creamy white walls. As a child, the warmth felt from my uncles’ presence overwhelmed me with happiness and caused me to disregard the evident truth of their dysfunctions.
My uncles were just a few of the people in my family who had fallen victim to a street-dictated lifestyle leading to various addictions, mental health issues, and multiple incarcerations. Ultimately, the immutable factors holding my family in bondage led to the loss of my family's home. The more my family disintegrated around me, the more I leaned heavily onto the surrounding community, spending immeasurable hours volunteering at local shelters, parks, gardens and many more locations. Interacting with residents at Pine Street Inn, preparing food at the Greater Boston Food Bank, and farming at the Food Project were not completely selfless endeavors, but a way for me to escape the brokenness of my home, and find stability through my friends.
My everyday stroll to work during my sophomore summer seemed to provide a sharp contrast to my childhood home. As I gradually made my way through the metropolis of Boston, I was greeted by a multitude of white collar workers embellished with immaculately knotted ties in intricately designed dress shoes. Store lights illuminated the early morning as skyscrapers kept their posts standing three hundred and ten feet tall into the blue sea sky. Initially, the city appeared spotless, crisp and purposeful, devoid of flaws. However, as my eyes found shadows and alleyways, I was also greeted with a familiar sight. I caught the glare of one individual wearing a shirt the color of dreary grass and tattered high-water pants. His brown hair reflected his overall appearance: untidy and in disarray. As his presence went unnoticed by many, my eyes remained glued to his solemn face painted with hopelessness and anxiety. The silent sobs for help from this man captivated me the entire week. For me, this man did not look like a stranger, but a reflection of my own family and a reminder of the inequity that breeds throughout Boston.
Through these observations, I made the realization that my family's problems were not bound by the four basement walls in which they live. The array of issues which lives within Boston could be found in many other cities all around the world. The aesthetically pleasing attractions often seen by tourists masked the struggles within the homeless community, families drowning in financial struggles, and violence saturating neighborhoods. I became much more empathetic towards these individuals, and became driven to hear about their diverse and often forgotten stories. It inspired me to take action and implement the change I envision for my city.
Advocates do not have to be the people who enthrall the crowd with their charm. They can also be those who do the behind-the-scenes work. I realized my work, no matter what the magnitude is, has a potential to go a long way, whether I'm buying a muffin for a homeless person or hearing them out while they tell their story. As a child engulfed in a corrosive environment and nourished with aggressiveness and bad tendencies, the smallest acts of kindness performed by my uncles stood out more than any bad memory.
My city can indeed be broken, but these small acts will combat the struggles of Boston. What started off as a distraction from the pain I experienced became a passion for me giving as much as myself as possible, and empathizing with others who may look different than me. I'm no longer suffocated by generational dysfunctions of my family, but I've had my eyes opened to a larger world and its possibilities.
