When asked, “How has your participation in the Community Service Project encouraged you to draw upon the expertise of faculty and staff?” all I can really say is that “I haven’t done it, so far”. The only interaction with faculty I’ve had has been with trying to sort out problems in my classes. That said, just because I haven’t needed to do so doesn’t mean that I haven’t been encouraged. From the people who have came into our Freshman Seminar classes, I have learned that should I ever have an issue in practically any area, there are people and resource centers I can go to for help. Right now I’m actually having some problems with my Macbook, so I guess I’ll be using those resources in one way or another pretty soon.

Then I’m asked, “Have you joined a student club?” and to this, I can say “Yes!”. I recently joined the Baruch College radio station, WBMB, in the music department. So far, it’s been great. I met some really cool people, and found a niche that is both new and familiar. In high school, I was president of the Rock & Roll Club, so being in a creative environment is something I’m used to. However, at the same time, this is completely new to me, as I’ve never been in radio before. Right now, I’m trying to come up with a concept for my own show. This is at once exciting and intimidating, but it is definitely something I want to do. Sort of like college, in general.

In high school, I was told that “in order to get into a good college,” I would have to do community service. Kids around me began volunteering at soup kitchens and nursing homes, and I figured that if they could do it, so could I. So I did.

I started my volunteer work at a “rehabilitation facility”—not the rehab stars go to, but the rehab your grandmother would visit when she got out of hip surgery. Except, this was not only a rehabilitation center. It was a “home”. Technically, it was a “residential facility,” but calling it “rehab” gave the people inside some semblance of hope—they were only there to get better and go home, right? There was also one floor reserved for “psych patients,” but most of them could care less what the place was called; one lady with schizophrenia was earnestly convinced that the entire building was her castle.

You marked your visit by signing in at a desk right past the two layers of automatic double doors, which would glitch and beep at you every now and then. The doorways were lined with sensors, which corresponded to electronic bracelets forcibly worn by some of the residents. They wanted out, but the second they passed through the front doors, the alarm would sound. A nurse told me it was “for their own good”.

At the Thanksgiving luncheon I volunteered at, only one resident’s family showed up. Despite the overwhelming sense of obligation, it seemed like a nice gesture. However, the other fifty residents in the room just stared at the floor, either too sad to even be jealous, or totally asleep. Although I was completely removed from the situation, it was pretty depressing to witness.

When we started talking about doing community service in Freshman Seminar, I wasn’t sure where I wanted to volunteer, but I knew exactly where I didn’t. Some people have tried to convince me that by volunteering at a nursing home, you bring joy into these peoples’ lives, but I find that hard to wrap my mind around. The fact that the residents have essentially been abandoned and left to die is a humongous elephant in the room, and it’s something I can’t see past.

So, that is why I am going to clean up some parks.

Where have I been and where am I going?

I was born in New York, but moved to Tennessee at a few months old. I lived there until I was seven, then it was back to New York, where I’ve been ever since. I go back every summer–my mom’s family lives down there, and it’s nice to relax with the grass and the horses and other country stuff, once in a while. Only once in a while, though; I could never live there. I may be “from” Tennessee, but New York is my home.

When we moved back up here, my parents divorced. That was a trip. Statistically speaking, I’m sure many of you have experienced exactly what I’m talking about, so you know what it’s like. If not, then just know that it’s hard. I lived with my dad, and he got remarried. Then divorced. Married again. Divorced. It became my life goal at fifteen to never take marriage and kids as seriously as my dad did.

Now I live with my mom. Things are calm, and we get along well. We watch the same shows: Law & Order, Mad Men, 30 Rock, Intervention. On almost every episode of Intervention, they roll a montage of the subject’s childhood–how they were neglected or abused, lost a relative, a friend, a pet. They are always the victim of their upbringing, so when they lose control of their adult lives, it’s understood. Almost expected. But, I don’t buy it.

From my experience, almost everyone has a story like that. I have found that the way people react to life separates them from each other; one can either surrender and become a “victim of life” (as an old friend once called herself) or take control and make the life they desire. Sure, my childhood wasn’t the best, but objectively, it could have been worse. Am I a victim? Absolutely not, and I will never be one. I refuse to allow myself to be subdued by situations that were completely beyond me, when I now have the power to make things better for myself. I am responsible for me.