THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, December 30, 1994 TAG: 9412300076
SECTION: DAILY BREAK PAGE: E1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY DACRIE BROOKS, HIGH SCHOOL CORRESPONDENT
LENGTH: Medium: 73 lines
ONCE AGAIN Santa has returned to the North Pole. We've ditched the tree, and who cares about Jack Frost nipping at our noses?
It's time to contemplate New Year's resolutions. Teenage girls are resolving to change their diets, while guys may be devising calculated plans to win over the girl of their dreams. Some of us have even decided to pull up grades that Mom and Dad weren't all that excited about.
This is life.
Two years ago, I too, was beginning my New Year's list. I wanted to eat healthier - fewer potato chips and more pretzels. I also wanted a new self-image. But at the top of the list was to be a more caring person.
It wasn't a sudden epiphany, I was forced into this self-discovery. On Christmas Day, I went to a local nursing home, less than thrilled at the prospect of spending Christmas morning handing out gifts to elderly people whom I didn't even know.
Walking down the cold hallways of the nursing home that morning, I glanced at my watch every two minutes. After 20 minutes, I was ready to leave. Two more painful hours of handing out presents remained. I felt like I was in some kind of circus where I had to put on a happy face to please the crowd.
I was the only one having difficulties. My mother and younger sister had done this kind of thing before and were almost finished. My brother cheerfully walked the corridors yelling, ``Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!''
He continued to bounce around until he came out of an older man's room, tears streaming down his face. He grabbed my hand and buried his head in my chest.
``Jamaal, what's wrong with you?'' I asked.
He said nothing. He pointed to a man in a wheelchair whose leg had been amputated. The old man had tears running down his face, and I could hear him moaning. I attempted to calm my brother. But I didn't know what to say. I stood dumbfounded in the middle of the hallway, my brother clinging to me.
Jamaal was only 10 at the time, and he had never been exposed to such sadness. Neither had I.
Many residents whom we saw that day could not talk, walk or even see. They weren't like Grandma and Grandpa, who would sit and tell us great frontier stories.
Despite my reluctance, I continued to pass out presents. I only had one more gift to deliver when I went into a woman's room. She sat in her wheelchair with her head bent down in her chest. She slowly lifted her head upon my entrance.
``Look, Santa got you something for Christmas,'' I said. ``Let's look and see.'' As I began to untie the bow, she reached out and grabbed my hand.
``Please, don't leave me here alone by myself,'' she cried. ``My family won't come see me and I have nobody else. I don't want to be here anymore. Can't you see that?''
My hands shivered and my lips were quivering. I was touched by her pain, and I held back the tears with a smile. I could hear her yelling for me as I walked out of the room. I walked in silence. It was like she had been stripped of her soul.
Another woman had talked about no longer living, begging me to remain at her beside until she fell asleep. She smiled as I opened her Christmas present, and when I kneeled down, she whispered in my ear, ``God, bless you.''
I wandered through the halls one last time. I knew that this had happened for a reason. It was a sign, maybe even an omen.
That night, I sat in bed and thought of all of my good fortune: health, a great family, the list went on and on. Then I remembered my morning and my lesson. I had to learn the hard way that accomplishments mean nothing when we relinquish our love for humanity.
Make a resolution that makes a difference this year. Learn to care. MEMO: Dacrie Brooks is a senior at Cape Henry Collegiate by CNB