"Do not wait for leaders; do it alone, person to person."
~ Mother Theresa

When I first realized that I was *really* going to spend my Thanksgiving holiday in rural Jamaica in 2004, I wasn't completely surprised, but I was certainly curious about how things would unfold. I'd heard many stories about previous trips, the most interesting and intriguing of which focused on the Clarendon/MayPen infirmary.

I had a hard time imagining what it would be like to spend a day at the infirmary and I admit that even *my* active imagination could not fully comprehend what lay before me. Hearing stories of poverty and disfiguration were somehow easier to bear from the comfort of my Cambridge apartment. So when our team's van pulled up to the infirmary and several residents listlessly wandered toward us volunteers, I tried to "manage my panic" - a motto one of my friends taught me while prepping for the GRE as part of my applications to Harvard Grad School of Education.

I was in the most destitute place I could imagine. The building, the people, and the task in front of me provided plenty of practice at managing my panic. I could strive for Harvard with zeal - why not this half-day visit to those who needed a visitor the most?

Our day began with a tour of the facility. The women's ward was our first stop and as we approached, we heard shrieking sounds. Our "tour guide" Leslie (now a Won by One staff member) paused for a moment to tell us that this was actually the sound of excitement caused by our arrival - someone was overjoyed that we'd soon be visiting with them one-on-one.

Leslie added very frankly that this was the sort of thing which might have scared her off in prior years, but she had come to realize that it just meant someone was happy we'd shown up. It was a change in perspective I needed to hear and clung to for the remainder of the day.

Throughout my afternoon at the infirmary I did my best to serve and visit with residents, but it was difficult. Without medical expertise I was sent to roam the infirmary to visit with the residents - trying to be hopeful and share hope, but without much direction my energy was quickly dwindling.

I made my way to a bed where a woman lay, paralyzed from the waist down. I introduced myself as our medical staff finished her check-up and thus I met Pearl, one of the most well-known residents at the infirmary. Pearl has been living at the infirmary for a number of years after becoming paralyzed, yet her determination and kind spirit ignite passion, leaving indelible prints upon the heart and soul. After a lengthy visit and a sad farewell, our team left the infirmary, and I treasured those moments we'd had together.

Two years have passed, but my long conversation with Pearl has rarely left my mind. Upon returning to Boston just days after meeting Pearl I woke, again in the comfort of my home, wondering what she would be doing that day.

It was simple enough to imagine the hours spent lying in her bed, a view of the small yard and other infirmary buildings outside the window. Pearl, unlike any of the other residents has a small CD player which she operates using a long thin stick, carefully manipulating the stick with her fingers to select the buttons.

I imagined her listening to one of her CDs (country music is a favorite) and asking an orderly to open her small envelope of photos sent by various visitors who've passed by her bed and conversed with her much like me. The photos are a treasure and a reminder that someone far away is thinking of her.

I keep a photo taken of Pearl and me on my desk at work and the result is that she is never far from my thoughts. Truth be told, she has often consumed my attention during a workday, and I jump at the chance to tell people about her when they notice the framed photo.

I keep the photo as a reminder that there is work to be done at the infirmary, work that may eventually change the way Pearl lives out her remaining days. I had always admired Mother Theresa for enduring a life of poverty with the outcasts of society, but her work and passion had never made sense to me.

Why would someone leave all comforts behind to serve and live with the most destitute? After meeting Pearl and spending just those few hours at the infirmary, I realized that the residents of the infirmary are not so different from you or me - all of us are destitute in one way or another. The difference is that we can hide our areas of destitution better than Pearl and those who live at the infirmary, and the comforts of our lives help us to hide things very well.

My personal draw to serving those at the infirmary stems from seeing the effects of neglect, physical pain, and touching with my own hand the face of those who must endure such difficulties. While I knew that such destitution existed before I went to the infirmary, I am now even more responsible than before to seek change and the restoration of dignity. However, I am no longer waiting for leaders to ask for my service, but serving on my own initiative.

As with many cases of injustice around the world, we may not all see the acts first-hand. But as members of a global society, we are responsible for our actions (or lack of action) and to facilitate change where needed. As I return to Jamaica in just over a month, I hope to follow through on what Mother Theresa encouraged, it is time to work for change in small ways - person to person.

After a single day at the infirmary and my meeting with Pearl, the work of Mother Theresa has never been the same in my mind. Her work is an example which shifts the responsibility to care for and empower the powerless - the accountability to act is now ours.


Liz
JamaicaNow Team 2006

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