image by House of Sims

I was very nervous when I walked through the glass doors of the elementary school on my first day as a mentor, as I almost always am when I start a new project. When I signed up to be a KidsHope mentor I was gung-ho. It sounds like such a fabulous thing, setting aside an hour a week to help a child who needs it.

I love grand, abstract concepts. That’s why I love writing. I could sit here at my computer all day long and play armchair philosopher. It’s fun. Sometimes, though, when it gets down to the reality of actually doing something with all of my lovely ideas, I get a little panicky. Who am I to think I can accomplish anything, to make a difference? my brain says to me.

Once that thought takes hold a million others flood in after it. What if the kid doesn’t like me? You hear so much about how kids are jaded and hate to learn. Of course I don’t believe that when I’m alone with my pie-in-the-sky thoughts, but what if it’s true? What if this kid finds having a mentor embarrassing or thinks it’s a stupid waste of time? What if I don’t make a difference? Failure and I are mortal enemies, so much so that I have been known to avoid trying to avoid failing.

As I walked through the standard-issue locker-lined halls of the school I felt all of my old school aged insecurities flooding back to me. I suppressed them. I’m 30 years old, for the love of Pete. I don’t need to be intimidated by 10 year olds, but for a minute I was.

Then I met my student, who I’ll call Stacy for the sake of anonymity. Immediately I liked her. She has a bright smile and what my mom called ‘sparkly eyes,’ a sure sign in my opinion of a kindred spirit. I relaxed a little and remembered that, one on one, I actually get along great with most kids.

Stacy is curious and smart, qualities I hold in high regard. In spite of all of the stereotypes I’ve heard of “kids these days” she is cooperative, friendly and loves to learn. We start out most weeks with a task at hand, studying for an upcoming test or working on a project of some sort. She applies herself willingly and diligently to the task every time, but the mentoring goes beyond that. She asks questions about all sorts of things that crop up as we work. A discussion about industrial Michigan turns into a discussion about cars which turns into a funny story about a friend. It flows easily. I learn more about her and she learns more about me each time.

It turns out that all of my flaws and insecurities are part of being a good mentor. I know what it’s like to be nervous about a test. I know what it’s like to be worried about being liked or to devour a book in an evening and forget to do my chores. On a deeper level, I know what it’s like to experience loss or fear or separation and I know how to listen.

In three weeks I have seen the impact that mentoring can have, both on the child and the mentor. The biggest surprise to me came when I was standing in line waiting with Stacy waiting to get her lunch.

“Who is that?” another child asked her, pointing to me.

“That’s my mentor,” Stacy explained.

“What’s a mentor?” the other child asked.

“Someone who helps you,” Stacy answered.

“Don’t you have a mentor, Sam?” another kid piped up. “You need to get yourself on the list. Ask them for a permission slip. Having a mentor is great!”

“Yeah,” a fourth kid chimed in, “my sister has a mentor and I am on the list. She says it’s so much fun! I hope I can get one soon.”

The suspicion on Sam’s face turned to envy and for the first time I can really see the impact the program has had on these kids. For a moment my grand, abstract, do-gooder dreams were fulfilled before, fish sticks and string cheese in hand, we returned to the library for the hands-on fun of the actual work.