A "little sister" lost and found

I should have written today's blog more than two weeks ago. In the time that has passed, I have told many this amazing story, but I had to let it steep for a while before the story could tell itself on paper -- or computer, as it may be. It's the story of an amazing journey of a strong and determined person. I'm proud to call that person my "little sister." If you don't read any of my other blogs, read this one. 

Veronica Jones-Felton and I are not much for selfies, but we couldn't let this moment go unrecorded! / Selfie by me

On my recent Southern road trip, I made Augusta, Ga., the priority, although a weekend wedding in Duck, NC, on the Outer Banks and a visit to my sister in South Carolina were the impetus for the trip. The segue to Augusta had nothing to do with marriage or blood, but everything to do with relationships.A year or so ago, I got a message out of the blue on Facebook. It was from my “little sister” of more than 30 years ago, from when I was 24 and she was 17 or so, both of us living in Charlottesville, Va. We had lost touch in the years that had passed, perhaps because branching long distances in those early years could still be achieved only by home phones with long coiled cords attached to the receiver and snail mail. Neither of us were very good at either of those.I worked on the copy desk at the local newspaper during my year in Charlottesville while my husband was busy with classes, research, and coaching. I had free time, so I decided to volunteer in the Big Brother Big Sister program through the juvenile court system. I was first assigned to a very troubled young man. I had no idea just how troubled he was until my newspaper did an investigative feature about him after he was arrested for trying to sexually assault a University of Virginia student. The fact that I had been assigned to be his mentor prior to this attack was a little worrisome, but I went back to the court to ask for a new “little.”This time, the pairing was perfect. Veronica was in the system for fighting on the school bus. That poor girl had to fight her way through her entire life. Because her mother was mentally challenged, she had been raised mostly by her great-grandmother until officials deemed her great-grandmother too old to care for her and her brother. That’s when she was placed into foster care because many of her relatives were either on drugs or in jail or already taking care of the younger cousins who were displaced because of the family situation.Veronica and I got together every couple of weeks. We went to movies and plays, made dinner, and explored areas around Charlottesville. I wish I could say I had done more for her, but I don’t think that I did. We both enjoyed the companionship and looked forward to our outings.When Ronnie found me last year, I was overjoyed to learn that she had escaped her past and had worked incredibly hard to achieve great success in her life. She left Charlottesville to join the Army, for which she worked as a cook. She had a daughter. She married another soldier, whose Army career was more promising than hers, so she left the military to become a hairdresser.Soon after 9/11, her life took a tragic turn. Her husband was deployed in Iraq for a year. Just three days after his return, he was driving on base at Ft. Hood Texas when he was hit head-on by another vehicle. He suffered debilitating injuries and during the many scans that followed, doctors discovered he had Stage 4 Hodgkin's lymphoma. He left the hospital in a wheelchair, progressed to a walker, but within six months, he was dead.Veronica fought for nearly two years, with the Army Board for Correction of Military Records (ABCMR) to gain access to his benefits and GI bill. They had been married for nearly 10 years and had been planning a move to Ft. Gordon in Georgia upon his return from Iraq to be closer to his family and to settle down. During her long grieving process and two-year battle for benefits, she decided to follow through with their plans and had a home built for her and her daughter outside Augusta in Hephzibah.She finally won her long battle with the federal government and was able to use her GI bill along with her late husband’s to go to college. She completed a Bachelors of Science in Special Education at Augusta State University, and has been working as a first-grade teacher in the Augusta schools ever since. In the meantime, she has also completed two master’s degrees – one in Special Education and the other in Curriculum and Instruction. She could be working on a Ph.D., but because her school doesn’t have grants to cover that, she is working on certification towards other master’s programs. She also mothered her beautiful daughter through it all, and was proud to see her daughter graduate last year from Georgia Southern University and move to a job in Atlanta.It’s probably pretty clear by now why Augusta became the focus of my trip south. Ronnie and I had so much to catch up on, and the only way to do that properly is in person.Because she was already back to school and I was traveling mid-week, I didn’t want to impose for too long. I arrived after school on a Wednesday. She took me to every part of Augusta and explained the history and significance. We walked on the beautiful paths of her college campus, reading about the cannons on display that had been used in the Civil War, and then along the main street in Augusta, better known as Broad Street, where I posed next to the little James Brown statue. She drove me across the Savannah River into South Carolina and then along the edges of the famed Augusta National Golf Club. During our journeys, she got phone calls from a parent of one of her students. I listened in admiration as she patiently explained her student’s troubles to the mother and outlined the plan to help her child succeed.

That's me and Little James Brown -- the Godfather of Soul truly was a little man / Photo by Veronica Jones-Felton

She told me about her volunteer work in the food pantry of her church, about her daughter, and her family as we stopped to enjoy some delicious Korean barbecue. They knew her by name there because after five trips to Korea (including a stint there as an Army cook), she understands and appreciates Korean cuisine and culture.We savored every dip and every side dish that accompanied our barbecue and Kimbop or Korean sushi. Even more, we savored the conversation that helped to close the 30-year gap. We were surprised to discover some shared experiences and choices. She told me about her dreams, her successes, and her challenges. Among the challenges, were some of her students, whose lives were so difficult that the difficulty followed them to school. This one had learning troubles, that one had an unstable home life, this one came to school “mean. I mean she’s just mean.” Some of them had been on the “two-year plan” for both kindergarten and first grade.The next morning, I accompanied her to her first-grade classroom at a school located in the heart of downtown Augusta, very near the projects. She had car duty that morning, so I stood alongside her as she opened the car doors and greeted every child who arrived for school with a smile and a “good morning,” before ushering them safely inside for morning breakfast – which every child in the school gets for free. This school goes out of its way to provide as much as it can to the tiny children whose very existence might depend on that help.

Veronica's school, Craig-Houghton Elementary in the heart of Augusta / Photo from Richmond County School System website

The students were excited that they had a visitor in class. In addition to their curiosity about me, they also had a volunteer that morning. Dr. Joe, a local pediatrician, volunteers in the classroom every Thursday morning. We were the hands and eyes and ears for Miss Jones, whose hands and eyes and ears couldn’t possibly attend to so many needs. Yet, except for Thursday mornings, she does so. Alone.The “mean” child arrived late after a visit to the principal’s office. I discovered that she craved help and attention. She wanted to hold my hand as much as she could that morning. A little boy who was bipolar refused to join in with the other children and sat drawing at his desk. He held his pencil incorrectly, so Dr. Joe challenged him to try to write with a nub of a crayon. He had to change his grip to do it, and Dr. Joe gently showed him how to do that with the pencil, promising he would bring him a pencil grip the next week.When Dr. Joe walked away, I asked the boy to show me if he could write with his pencil gripped properly. He promptly drew me a sophisticated picture, holding the pencil perfectly.During mat time, Miss Jones asked one little girl to instead sit on a chair because her skirt was too short, asking, “Does your mother let you wear these short skirts to school? When you wear short skirts, you need to wear shorts underneath.”“I do have shorts on, Miss Jones,” she chimed out sweetly.“Where? I can’t see them.”“They’re gymnastics shorts.”“Well sit on the chair anyway.”Later when the little girl stood up to give an answer to a question her top button was undone and her fly was down on her skirt.“What is going on with you? You are juicy, girl. Let’s fix this,” Miss Jones chided gently.Miss Jones knew their lives. She had lived them all in her childhood. She knew how to inspire them, how to talk to them, how to motivate them, how to keep order with them. She knew how to pull out the information she didn’t want to know as well such as when practicing how to make graphs and charts, she discovered that several children hadn’t eaten dinner the night before.Those children might not have eaten. They might not have had anyone to give them attention at home. They might have mismatched or inappropriate clothing. Those children, however, had potential, and thanks to the nurturing and guidance of Miss Jones, they were reading, spelling, making graphs in math class, and writing sentences. This was week four of first grade.I left after my morning at school with so many emotions -- awe at all my “little sister” had achieved in her life, sadness to see the lives of so many children living in poverty, happiness at seeing their smiles and successes that morning, and determination to figure out how I might find a way to make a difference in another person’s life.My neighbor has been a big sister to a city girl for seven years now. I see pictures she posts from time to time of them on outings or celebrating the little sister’s successes. I know she is making a difference in that girl’s life. Many may believe that these small volunteer efforts might not make a difference. They might be surprised to discover, however, that the difference is not only for others, but also for themselves. Do they make a difference? They do.They do.