There are times in our lives when we don't realize how deeply another person has affected us until they have gone. Such a person might be someone we casually pass in the street, a mere acquaintance, a friend, a life partner, or a relative. In Sarah's case, she was my classmate at St. Therese elementary school and San Joaquin Memorial high school in Fresno, CA. And even though I can't remember a single conversation the two of us had, I found myself--at the age of 40--writing about her in an essay when applying for an advanced graduate degree in social work. As a tribute to Sarah's profound influence in my life (and in the lives of countless others as well), I would, therefore, like to share a excerpt from this essay.
When asked to describe my first desire to become a social worker, I can't help but think of a 10-year old girl by the name of Sarah. A fellow classmate of mine, Sarah returned to school one day after a long and mysterious absence. Many of my classmates and myself had simply assumed that she had transferred to a public school or perhaps had moved out of town. However, the moment she entered the classroom,a mere glimpse of her--emaciated, pale, and without much hair on her head, shook us to a startled, more starkly informed state of consciousness. By the end of the school day, a continuous humming of whispers throughout the classroom had brought us to the conclusion that Sarah had contracted a very rare and incurable form of cancer.
In the days and months that followed, whispers--among some of my classmates--turned into ridicule behind Sarah's back or a more subtle, well-intentioned yet fearful silence among others. To be honest (and I'm not very proud of this), I belonged somewhere between the latter group and among a very small handful of classmates who made awkward attempts to say "hi" to her now and then. For most of us 10 year olds, if not all, this was probably the first time that any one of us had ever personally encountered someone with cancer...much less, someone our own age. Hence, to the best of my recollection, none of us knew what to say or do. It was as if there were an indescribably bottomless chasm and an unspeakably dark abyss separating us from Sarah who, in many ways, was just like us, yet in one way "different". And this "difference" made us uncomfortable.
Yes, it was so very sad and unfair that a 10-year old girl had been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease just as she was beginning to live! But I also remember feeling great sadness that I couldn't articulate at the time. In part, I'm sure I was identifying with the deaths of my brother and father 4 years prior. But on some level of burgeoning social consciousness, I was saddened that a "dis-ease" far more more debilitating and frightening than the disease that spread through Sarah's body had infiltrated my fifth grade class...myself included. With no malice on our part (again, we were only 10-year old children), the "disease" we had contracted was the inability to embrace difference--due to lack of life experience, perhaps understandably out of fear of the unknown and unfamiliar. If left unchanged, however, it is the precursor to all forms of social intolerance, the microscopic yet insidious virus out of which all the "isms" (racism, sexism, ageism, etc.) grow.
I like to think that all of us in that fifth grade class have since then been cured of this disease...thanks to Sarah. I am optimistic and hopeful that, perhaps by our encounter with Sarah, we have all grown to accept not only the difference that illness occasions, but all forms of difference and social diversity such as race, gender identity, sexual orientation, political party, religious/non-religious belief systems and age.
It is Sarah who, for me, significantly impacted this social consciousness within me for the first time. More powerfully than any catechism or religion class, she taught me the importance of respecting the inherent dignity and intrinsic worth of every human being--regardless of their external appearance or differentiating circumstances. And it is to Sarah that I attribute the genesis of my yearning to become a social worker. For she opened my eyes and heart to a world in which differences—though sometimes difficult to reconcile within ourselves and among others—are social realities that can be more wholly embraced--not categorically rejected--and beyond merely tolerated, can even--with the compassion and care of others--be celebrated.
Thank you, Sarah, for so meaningfully affecting my life along with the lives of countless others. We, your classmates, look forward to seeing you as we enter the class of angels that welcomed you and, will one day welcome us, to a state of heavenly and divine consciousness. Until then, we celebrate the on-going memories of your gentle and beautiful spirit among us.
My memories of Sarah are not profound or life altering, but they remain vivid to this day. You see, Sarah lived next door to me for her entire life. She was the daughter of Mr. McDermot, a local attorney. She lived with her Mom and her two sisters, Katie and Patty. An older brother, Michael was not often home and, as I recall, worked in the Forest Service.
Growing up in the early to mid 1960's (my god that sounds so long ago) Sarah had been a vibrant and fun companion. In fact, we used to tease my younger brother that he and Sarah would marry one day. She was cute and adventuresome.
My family and I left town for several years starting when I was in Second Grade at St. Theresa. At that time, Sarah was a typical young girl of our generation, giggly and goofy into barbie and bows. When we returned, I was starting 7th grade and Sarah had been ill for several years.
We watched as Sarah became less and less robust, missing school, changing in appearance, wondering if or when she would beat her leukemia. When I entered high school, my brother and I would go over to the McDermots every morning, sometimes with other neighbor kids, all so that we could hitch a ride with Katie driving, Sarah on my lap in the front seat, all 90 pounds of her, my brother and others stuffed haphazardly in back seat of the brown Pinto. Often there would be six or seven of us crammed into that little fire bomb of a car.
Katie gave us a ride like that for at least two years. Sarah on my lap, her head brushing the ceiling of the car, her body hunched over and leaning to the right so Katie could turn the wheel. Me trying to give Sarah room and make sure she was as comfortable as I could make her. We would all talk, Katie would curse and fume at the other drivers, complaining that she could not see out of her mirrors.
And you know what? Never, not once...ever in ANY of the years I knew her...at ANY of the times I saw her limping....NOT once when she came back from treatments in San Francisco...there was NEVER, EVER a time when I saw her wallow in self pity or cry “why me?”
I am sure there were times when she had doubts and felt the burden of her disease; but I never saw them. She could have used a wheel chair all the time, but she did not. She stoically dealt with her illness, refusing to use it as a crutch or an excuse, not allowing herself to be defined by her disease.
Sometimes now, I too think about Sarah. The car rides. Her painful, slow pace down the halls. Her patchy hair and curly wigs. And when I do think of her, I remember that while her leukemia may have taken her life, it never took her dignity.
Kellye-Kendall Jones
There are times in our lives when we don't realize how deeply another person has affected us until they have gone. Such a person might be someone we casually pass in the street, a mere acquaintance, a friend, a life partner, or a relative. In Sarah's case, she was my classmate at St. Therese elementary school and San Joaquin Memorial high school in Fresno, CA. And even though I can't remember a single conversation the two of us had, I found myself--at the age of 40--writing about her in an essay when applying for an advanced graduate degree in social work. As a tribute to Sarah's profound influence in my life (and in the lives of countless others as well), I would, therefore, like to share a excerpt from this essay.**********************************************************
When asked to describe my first desire to become a social worker, I can't help but think of a 10-year old girl by the name of Sarah. A fellow classmate of mine, Sarah returned to school one day after a long and mysterious absence. Many of my classmates and myself had simply assumed that she had transferred to a public school or perhaps had moved out of town. However, the moment she entered the classroom,a mere glimpse of her--emaciated, pale, and without much hair on her head, shook us to a startled, more starkly informed state of consciousness. By the end of the school day, a continuous humming of whispers throughout the classroom had brought us to the conclusion that Sarah had contracted a very rare and incurable form of cancer.
In the days and months that followed, whispers--among some of my classmates--turned into ridicule behind Sarah's back or a more subtle, well-intentioned yet fearful silence among others. To be honest (and I'm not very proud of this), I belonged somewhere between the latter group and among a very small handful of classmates who made awkward attempts to say "hi" to her now and then. For most of us 10 year olds, if not all, this was probably the first time that any one of us had ever personally encountered someone with cancer...much less, someone our own age. Hence, to the best of my recollection, none of us knew what to say or do. It was as if there were an indescribably bottomless chasm and an unspeakably dark abyss separating us from Sarah who, in many ways, was just like us, yet in one way "different". And this "difference" made us uncomfortable.
Yes, it was so very sad and unfair that a 10-year old girl had been diagnosed with a life-threatening disease just as she was beginning to live! But I also remember feeling great sadness that I couldn't articulate at the time. In part, I'm sure I was identifying with the deaths of my brother and father 4 years prior. But on some level of burgeoning social consciousness, I was saddened that a "dis-ease" far more more debilitating and frightening than the disease that spread through Sarah's body had infiltrated my fifth grade class...myself included. With no malice on our part (again, we were only 10-year old children), the "disease" we had contracted was the inability to embrace difference--due to lack of life experience, perhaps understandably out of fear of the unknown and unfamiliar. If left unchanged, however, it is the precursor to all forms of social intolerance, the microscopic yet insidious virus out of which all the "isms" (racism, sexism, ageism, etc.) grow.
I like to think that all of us in that fifth grade class have since then been cured of this disease...thanks to Sarah. I am optimistic and hopeful that, perhaps by our encounter with Sarah, we have all grown to accept not only the difference that illness occasions, but all forms of difference and social diversity such as race, gender identity, sexual orientation, political party, religious/non-religious belief systems and age.
It is Sarah who, for me, significantly impacted this social consciousness within me for the first time. More powerfully than any catechism or religion class, she taught me the importance of respecting the inherent dignity and intrinsic worth of every human being--regardless of their external appearance or differentiating circumstances. And it is to Sarah that I attribute the genesis of my yearning to become a social worker. For she opened my eyes and heart to a world in which differences—though sometimes difficult to reconcile within ourselves and among others—are social realities that can be more wholly embraced--not categorically rejected--and beyond merely tolerated, can even--with the compassion and care of others--be celebrated.
**********************************************************
Thank you, Sarah, for so meaningfully affecting my life along with the lives of countless others. We, your classmates, look forward to seeing you as we enter the class of angels that welcomed you and, will one day welcome us, to a state of heavenly and divine consciousness. Until then, we celebrate the on-going memories of your gentle and beautiful spirit among us.
Paul Pimentel
My memories of Sarah are not profound or life altering, but they remain vivid to this day. You see, Sarah lived next door to me for her entire life. She was the daughter of Mr. McDermot, a local attorney. She lived with her Mom and her two sisters, Katie and Patty. An older brother, Michael was not often home and, as I recall, worked in the Forest Service.Growing up in the early to mid 1960's (my god that sounds so long ago) Sarah had been a vibrant and fun companion. In fact, we used to tease my younger brother that he and Sarah would marry one day. She was cute and adventuresome.
My family and I left town for several years starting when I was in Second Grade at St. Theresa. At that time, Sarah was a typical young girl of our generation, giggly and goofy into barbie and bows. When we returned, I was starting 7th grade and Sarah had been ill for several years.
We watched as Sarah became less and less robust, missing school, changing in appearance, wondering if or when she would beat her leukemia. When I entered high school, my brother and I would go over to the McDermots every morning, sometimes with other neighbor kids, all so that we could hitch a ride with Katie driving, Sarah on my lap in the front seat, all 90 pounds of her, my brother and others stuffed haphazardly in back seat of the brown Pinto. Often there would be six or seven of us crammed into that little fire bomb of a car.
Katie gave us a ride like that for at least two years. Sarah on my lap, her head brushing the ceiling of the car, her body hunched over and leaning to the right so Katie could turn the wheel. Me trying to give Sarah room and make sure she was as comfortable as I could make her. We would all talk, Katie would curse and fume at the other drivers, complaining that she could not see out of her mirrors.
And you know what? Never, not once...ever in ANY of the years I knew her...at ANY of the times I saw her limping....NOT once when she came back from treatments in San Francisco...there was NEVER, EVER a time when I saw her wallow in self pity or cry “why me?”
I am sure there were times when she had doubts and felt the burden of her disease; but I never saw them. She could have used a wheel chair all the time, but she did not. She stoically dealt with her illness, refusing to use it as a crutch or an excuse, not allowing herself to be defined by her disease.
Sometimes now, I too think about Sarah. The car rides. Her painful, slow pace down the halls. Her patchy hair and curly wigs. And when I do think of her, I remember that while her leukemia may have taken her life, it never took her dignity.