Character Matters Essay Contest, 2nd Place, Middle School Division
I don�t remember much of my past. The parts I do remember are because they really stick out to me, mean something to me. Like the time I was in Seattle. I think I was about 7 or 8 at that time. When I remember it, I relive some funny, good moments my family and I had, like seagulls pooping on my sister, or that amazing king�s crab dish I had. Then there are the sadder, more serious, mellow parts.
My sister always called me a pig. I ate tons of food, and for some unfathomable reason, could gulp down 4 dishes while my sister was still slowly finishing her second. Buffets were my favorite. I would consume 2-3 dishes full to the top and keep going like it was a race or something. I don�t know how I could keep eating. Maybe it was because I needed that stuff to grow, but I think it was because I just loved food. �Always room for good food,� I�d say, and swallow a chocolate opera cake, while my sister looked at me, disgusted. I didn�t really think a lot about how much I ate, or anything else, for that matter, until I met that homeless person.
Of course, I had been at a restaurant. Not too shabby, but not too fancy either. Didn�t really matter though, because I was hungry and the food tasted good. As usual, I kept ordering and ordering food until I felt that my stomach would explode and as usual, my sister was disgusted by the amount of food I could eat. She kept asking my mom why she let me buy and eat so much food. My mom was on my side, however. She would just smile and say,� A growing boy needs to eat,� then affectionately pat my head. There I was, full to the top, belly bulging like a hot air balloon and slouching on the comfy couch-like seat. But I had ordered too much. A last dish of nice, steaming hot calamari came out before me, and it took all that I had to say,� To-go.� I was rather happy as I walked outdoors with my family, one hand carrying a plastic bag to eat later, and the other hand rubbing my stomach, trying to calm the aching. It was a typical Seattle day, cloudy but not gloomy. The street was bustling with cars, and the occasional couple passed us on the sidewalk. I vaguely recall that everyone seemed happy. But that�s when I saw him.
It was a dark huddled figure on the gray sidewalk that stuck up from it like a big rock would from the ground. The people passing by, I noticed, seemed to be moving around him in a hurry, as if he had the plague. Well, maybe not that, but they were definitely avoiding him. Our parked car was ahead of us but so was he. As I walked forward, I could see�his ragged clothes, shirt too small and his pants too big�an unclean beard that could use a shaving�a dark piece of cloth around him that was too small to be a blanket, but was probably what he used it for�and I guess he had this aura of�dirtiness. His back was against a wall of the building on the left side and in one of his hands was a small cardboard sign. I don�t remember what it had said, maybe something about God, or asking for money, or something about his hardships. But it was his eyes that really got to me. Whether they were blue, brown, gray or black, that didn�t matter. All I had seen were a pair of sad, tired eyes that seemed like they wanted something better.
I saw all of this as I walked by him. Looking back, I can�t believe I didn�t help him right then and there. But then again, I was sort of young and he looked scary. I was feeling sad while I walked past him, and towards the car. I didn�t know why I was sad at that time. Later I realized it was because no one was helping him. No one was going to even try to make his life better. Just as I was about to get into the car, I paused and looked back. There was the old man, still hunched up there, with people still walking around him like they would a big puddle. I had decided what I would do already. I ran back, slowing down as I got nearer to him. His head was bent, looking down at people�s feet walking past him. � Excuse me,� I whispered. The old man�s head turned towards my feet, then looked up at me. This time, I got a good look at his face. It could have been anyone else�s, just less clean, thinner, and sadder. I awkwardly held out my to-go bag. You should have seen his face. It lit up like a light bulb. His gaunt, gray cheeks turned a rosy color, and his dark soulless eyes suddenly had life in them. He smiled widely, revealing his yellow, crooked uneven teeth that had gaps in between. For a brief second, I could see him as a person. Well, you know what I mean. I could see him not poor anymore, having a steady job, clean-shaven, well-dressed. His smile was one of the most beautiful things I ever saw. Actually, it was nasty and gross, but it made me see how much it meant to him, and that made me feel like I was on top of the world.
He extended his left hand and gently took the bag from my hand. I ran back to my mom and sister. As I left, I could hear him say something. I imagined it was something like �God bless you, child� or maybe it was just a simple �Thank you.� Anyways, when I got back to the car, I was as giddy as a spring pig. I can�t explain it that much, but I just had this wonderful feeling of helping someone that made me jump for joy all around.
My sister had always said I was a pig. She was right. Every time I saw a chance to help someone else from then on, I tried to do just that before that window of opportunity closed. But like they say, every time God closes a window, he opens a door. Or at least I think that�s what they say. But what I mean is that there�s always another opportunity for me to help someone.Sometimes I think back to that homeless person, and wonder what he did after I gave him food. And I sometimes I exaggerate too, what that simple dish of calamari did for him. Maybe it gave him the energy to ask for hiring companies and landed him a job. Maybe not. But like Leo Buscaglia said,� Too often do we underestimate�the smallest acts of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.� I got that one from a book.
I don�t remember much of my past unless it has these really good moments that mean something to me. Well�maybe I can remember more if I create really good moments.
