It was a hot, lazy, late-summer day in August when I walked into Detroit's Department of Human Services. Fans were whirring as secretaries typed under the fluorescent lighting. I was led by the Program Director to the very last cubicle and told to sit. "You'll meet with the kids in a second," she said with a slight smile, more curious than impressed. I could only imagine what she must have been thinking. What would a preppy rich kid from Saline be doing Downtown? Helping? Yeah, he'll be here for a couple of weeks and then bail. I've seen it all before.
I might stay there for two weeks. Hell, I might be there for just one day. But I vowed to stay until I was confident I had made a difference, even for just one person.
I was jotting down the last of my notes when the last student of the day sat down. I looked up, and saw a young African-American woman staring at me with eyes that had likely seen far too much for someone her age. I closed my folder and asked the usual formalities: Hello. How are you? What's your name? It was Destiny, and she was fine. But it wasn't until I asked that seemingly innocent question that I learned who Destiny really was: “Tell me about yourself.”
Destiny grew up in a loving, two parent household until her father was shot on his way home from work when she was just eight years old. Her father believed that she would do great things, but his death caused Destiny to lose the confidence that only her father ever showed in her. Her mother struggled to provide for Destiny and her three younger brothers, and she found herself missing more and more school to work a part-time job. Her mother vowed that she would always be able to provide for her children, and Destiny could not let her mother struggle. So, her grades suffered.
I looked at her, a junior at Renaissance High School. I asked her what she wanted. Was there any way I could help? She said with a dejected tone that she wanted to go to college, but that she didn’t think she could get in. She was about to start her senior year and knew nothing about the admissions process.
“You’ve come to the right guy. I can help with that.”
I encouraged Destiny to put everything into her first semester grades at Renaissance and to take the ACT. With the struggle she faced helping her mother, there wasn’t much time for extracurriculars.
“But I like poetry. We do slams at my school all the time.”
I smiled. “Write about it. But most importantly, write about your life story.”
Before she left that day, I told her that she was going to go to the University of Michigan. She didn’t believe me, but I was certain of it.
Destiny and I met every week throughout our senior years in high school, and she told me in December that she took the ACT—and got a 32. This was a huge step forward, and we both knew it. Her grades were superlative: a mix of As and A-minuses. I told her to go ahead and apply to U of M. We worked together on every aspect of her application.
The day after my birthday, I sat down at my cubicle for the last day of my education assistance. The same director visited me and thanked me for all that I had done—she never expected me to stay as long as I did or to impact any of the students as I had. I thanked her.
Destiny came in late that day. She came in with a hustle and came to my cubicle with a letter in her hand and tears in her eyes.
It was an acceptance letter to the University of Michigan.
I hugged her, and she thanked me. I believed in her, something no one else had done since her father passed away.
I struggled to hold back tears and told her I knew she could do it all along.
Destiny and I are close friends to this day. She is studying at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor with a full scholarship, and she hopes to someday do what I had done for her: inspire struggling students and convince them that they can achieve their dreams. She’s on the Dean’s List and loves every minute of her time there. She still thanks me periodically for what she says changed her life.
I could perhaps mention so many other examples from my resume of when I had accomplished something great. A prestigious award or recognition. International volunteer efforts. Campaigns and symposiums. I am proud of all I have done, but I will never be more proud of what I was able to do for Destiny that lazy summer day all those years ago.
Paul Popa is a Trinity junior. His column runs on alternate Tuesdays.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.