This is a true story recorded from the Harvard National Debate Tournament last year. It was submitted as an English Essay (by me) earlier this year and subsequently revised.
The Harvard National Congress tournament taught me more than just how to be a better debater. It taught me to be a better person. I hope those of you that read this narrative are inspired to do good in the world. Memorial day is over, but that doesn't mean our patriotic flare and memorializing need to end.

The Cold Shoulder

     Sipping my hot chocolate (with extra whipped cream, of course), I watched the revolving door turn endlessly. Peoplewatching: One of America's greatest pastimes. With a G2-brand pen in one hand and Legal-brand notepad in the other, I absentmindedly set to work drafting my next Congressional Debate speech on reforming the Veterans’ Assistance Program. After some time, I decided I had better be off to my next round. Grabbing my laptop bag, I headed through the revolving door and into the snow. Kathunk! The crisp air stung at my cheeks and I was instantly drenched from head to toe. Wearing a suit in Boston during a snowstorm in February isn’t the best of ideas.



     Head held high, I strode forth into the grand new world glittering in white. It felt good to be dressed so classily and to walk around the city of Boston on my own. Marveling at the skyscrapers and people hustling and bustling about was invigorating. Inspiring, even. It turns out that the tournament grounds weren’t too far away, and I could just make sight of them through the foggy beige mist, but the sensory overload from everything around me was quite distracting. Sloshing through the snow in a canter, I was absorbed in the rhythm of city sounds. Taxi drivers leaning on their horns, yelling from protestors across the street, cyclists zipping by. The one sound I did not anticipate to even take notice of, though, was the silence protruding from a protected inlet in the cracked old wall that towered above the street life.

     I peered into the aperture, and a man in what appeared to be his fifties, dressed in tattered, dirty clothes stared back at me from the abyss. The bags under his eyes told me that this was a man that had given up all hope. The scraggly handwriting scrawled upon the cardboard sign he clasped read, “Spare change? Homeless Vet.” I was winded; punched in the gut by a fistful of silence. “Where,” I couldn’t help but wonder, “do homeless people get the markers to make those signs…?”

     Now it might have been the atmosphere of the city, my anxiety for the next debate session, or just the hot chocolate, but for whatever reason, I decided to be bold. This guy needed help. “Hey!” I shouted down the alleyway. “Hello,” replied a deep voice not at all suited for the dilapidated look that this man wore like a mask. I leaned forward for a handshake, and he firmly grasped my hand in return. I was taken aback, but could quickly see that he meant no harm. “I'm <my name here>,” I exclaimed as though introducing myself to a fellow debate competitor. “It’s nice to meet you.” “Sergeant John Burke. UAV operator. You as well.” “I have no change to spare,” I said, “but I do have some words of advice. No matter what has happened in the past, the future has something new and different in store. You may get discouraged, but know that there’s nothing but up from here.” He stood silent for a moment. Slowly but surely, the biggest smile I’d ever seen crept onto his face. For a homeless man, his teeth were decently white, and he was fairly clean cut. “It means so much that you just acknowledged me. Most people walk by and pretend not to see me, like I’m some sort of disgrace. It feels like I don’t exist, some days.” Here in Boston were two strange souls, from polar opposite worlds, both hungering for fellow human interaction. In that moment, the biting cold seemed to go away. “You don’t need to thank me; I wanted to thank you…for serving our country, and for pushing through even despite hard times.” He smiled and laughed like it was the first conversation he’d had in years. On the back of his mangled cardboard I scribbled my contact information, and told him to give me a call whenever he got back on his feet. It may have been a risky or stupid move on my part, but I felt genuinely sorry for the guy, and something in me compelled me to try to help, even if it was as simple as a hello. To be honest, I didn’t expect much to come of it anyways. I continued on my way, and he slinked back down into his makeshift tarp home. I was surprised at what I did. “I sound like a Chinese fortune cookie,” I thought. So the Harvard Tournament came and went, and months passed by. I’ve debated veterans’ assistance programs more than four times now, each time thinking of that raggedy old Sergeant Burke.
 
     Just two months ago, though, with the start of school, something extraordinary happened. I was home on a Saturday afternoon, messing around on the computer, concerned only with the PC game I had open in my browser, when my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but I answered anyways. “Hello, this is <my name>. Who is speaking?” “Hello Mr. <my name>, I just thought I’d give you a call to let you know how I’m doing.” “…who is this?” “You probably don’t remember me from that day in Boston, but it’s me, John Burke. Thank you. Thank you so much, kid. Thank you.” He thanked me for the hope, for the advice, and let me know that he was in the VA now, “getting all fixed up.” I couldn’t believe it, didn’t believe it. There could be no way that my whimsical stunt on that bustling Boston street made a difference in someone’s life (especially because I stood in negation when I debated that bill to fund the Department of Veterans’ Affairs…oh well). We chatted for a while, and eventually hung up the phone. I sat back in my black leather chair, and just thought.
 
     Weeks passed, and John and I began to text more frequently. He’s been redeployed to Afghanistan to fire off more unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs, more commonly referred to as “drones”) and has reconnected with his family in Pennsylvania. He’ll be coming back home in January. As for me, I’m just a curious debate kid that likes talking about drone policy and veterans. I still pour over the pictures of weaponry that occasionally pop onto my phone (non-classified, of course)

.

     There are more than 67,000 homeless veterans in the United States, according to the Department of Veterans’ Affairs. That’s a lot of people to strike up a conversation with, but it’s not my job to go around and talk to all of them. Sometimes, though, when the time is just right, making the smallest decision can turn out to have the biggest impact. The best of friends are met in the weirdest of places.