POSTCARD FROM BOSTON

I've discovered that remembering names is not a strong point of mine. I tend to lump vaguely familiar faces into broad mental categories which have titles like "people who seem as if they may be named James." This inadequacy in my memory was a persistent problem during the past school year when I taught a class of fifth graders non-violent conflict resolution skills with the organization Peace Games, Inc. Those ten-and eleven-year-olds in Dorchester were an energetic and cynical audience. They were able to answer leading questions about safety and respect with enough ease and assurance to make my questions seem fairly trite.

My co-teachers and I, all college undergrads, faced the constant challenge of bringing the curriculum, which was centered around stereotypes and acceptance, to an accessible and honest level. I was repeatedly struck by the difficulty of helping children discuss issues of personal immediacy, like how safe they felt at home, when my life was so far removed from theirs and the time I spent with them was so minimal.

I spent one hour a week in that classroom, consciously devoting at least the first three sessions to distinguishing names and faces. A final round question in the game of "Peaceful Jeopardy" which we played at the beginning of second semester was, "What steps can you take to keep conflicts from escalating?" The contestants of both teams had quick answers. "Communicate, listen, take a deep breath!"

The answers came quickly and excitedly, as would answers in a spelling bee, information memorized and then recited at the appropriate moment. At the time I wondered whether conflict resolution skills could be taught in one hour sessions once a week. My doubts persisted as I struggled to help my students question assumptions rather than memorize information.

Last year, I attributed the missing depth of Peace Games discussions to my own relative inexperience and the sheer difficulty of forming relationships with children in hectic one-hour class times. My decision to spend the summer teaching at an academic summer camp in Mission Hill, a Roxbury housing project, was partly due to my belief that hour-a-week public service was insufficient if I wanted to build lasting or, at least, effective relationships with children.

I spend seven hours a day with my eight- and nine-year-old campers. I memorized their names with relative ease. It is now the fourth week of this two month program, and I know each of my nine campers vastly better than I knew my Peace Games students. And I'm discovering with more and more certainty that time is only one barrier to relating to these children. During our unit on immigration, my campers were aghast to discover that I hadn't grown up in Boston. Utah? Small town? They were surprised and more than a little bit critical of roots from outside New England. During a discussion of ancestry, one child staunchly defended his belief that all of his relatives were from Boston, back through the generations.

My campers' urban roots are only one aspect of their lives which I have not experienced first hand. All nine of my campers are of predominantly African-American descent. I am white. All nine qualified for the free lunch program. I have the luxury of spending over a third of my summer earnings on travel. All nine live in a housing project in which drug use and violence are common-place. I live at Harvard University when I'm not visiting my parents in southeastern Utah. The list goes on.

When contemplating the value of public service from within the comfort of Harvard Yard, it is easy to imagine that the differences between those providing services and those receiving them can have minimal impact on the quality of service provided. In fact, many would argue, these differences can help people who have fundamental differences learn to relate to each other more effectively.

Though there is some truth to that perception, I am constantly reminded of the ways in which I am an inadequate role model to the campers with which I work. This is not to say that I would give up the role of public service in my life; nor would I give up the opportunity presented by this summer job.

But I must constantly struggle to be aware of the bounds of my own understanding of my campers' backgrounds. Public service, especially when performed under the constraints of a student's schedule, can easily be transformed from a mutually beneficial interaction to a situation in which "making a difference" becomes a mantra which enables the more economically fortunate to forget the limits of their own experience.

I learned my campers' names on the first day, but I have yet to understand the realities of their daily lives, the feeling they have when I take them home and the attitudes which they display about their time in camp. I am paying attention. I am struggling to interpret our cryptic conversations about race and difference. I am trying to remember what my life felt like in third grade. And I am reminded, each day, that my awareness of their backgrounds is pitifully incomplete.

Jessica F. Greenberg '01 will move into Adams House next year. This summer she is a senior counselor for eight and nine year olds in the Mission Hill Summer Camp in Roxbury, MA.