The summer between my sophomore and junior years in high school was when I started thinking about college. As well rounded as my debut at Southwest Miami High had been—member of the tennis team, Student Council treasurer, copy editor of the newspaper—I knew if I didn’t show some charitable acts, my college application would be incomplete and thus my choice of universities would be limited. After a chat with my brother, Willy, we both decided the best thing to do was sign up to become counselors at the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s camp that takes place every summer for one week a few hours north of our home. One week as a camp counselor? How hard could that be?
The camp is intended to give parents a much-deserved week off from having to take care of their incapacitated children. According to the Mayo Clinic’s definition, muscular dystrophy is a group of inherited muscle diseases in which muscle fibers are unusually susceptible to damage and slowly stop working altogether. In other words, the kids at this popular camp needed their counselors to do everything for them—everything. And for this particular “I’m-not-doing-that” individual who was volunteering in the first place for the calculated reason that it would look better on a college application, I was, quite honestly, appalled.
The situation went from difficult to unimaginable as I learned who was assigned to me, a 15-year-old named Greg. Here’s the problem: Even in his wheelchair, Greg was taller than me. Immobile except for his neck and face, Greg would need me to do everything for him, a fact that quite clearly filled him with delight. “Oh, this is going to be fun, white boy,” were Greg’s first words to me that scorching July day. “You look so scared. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” he continued teasing with a goofy, toothy smile. Being one of the few African-American kids at the camp that summer, Greg instantly started to refer to us as Ebony & Ivory, brotherly superheroes. I simply didn’t know how I was going to survive the week.
I’ll spare you the details of what it means to take care of someone else completely, but I’ll say this: It requires a toughness of character and a selflessness of soul that were missing in me until the very moment I had no choice but to call upon them. Every second of every day that week, Greg relied on no one but me to dress him, bathe him, feed him, brush his teeth and every other aspect of his life, no matter how small or intimate. I was, needless to say, exhausted. All the while, Greg was in love with his camp experience, incessantly telling all kinds of elaborate stories to his fellow campers, talking baseball to me (he an Atlanta Braves fan, me a Boston Red Sox die-hard) and giving everyone at camp unfortunate sounding nicknames that stuck (yep, I was White Boy). He never once complained. In fact, I don’t remember a single moment where Greg’s megawatt-smile didn’t overwhelm any room we were in. Even as I cried privately at the unfairness of life—how could any God allow this horrible thing to happen to such a loving soul?—Greg didn’t have any patience for self-pity or sadness. There was too much fun to be had.
The following summer, my brother and I decided to go back to the camp and, once again, volunteer—this time because I genuinely wanted to do it. As we piled out of the buses, I couldn’t wait to tell Greg that White Boy was back, this time more than ready to take his nicknames and teasing head on. The chief counselor took me aside the moment he saw me and told me that Greg had died a month earlier and that his parents made the trip anyway because they wanted to meet me. As a 16-year-old, I had never experienced such a blow. I literally fell to the ground and cried inconsolably. The specter of Greg’s parents holding me and trying to comfort me even as they were still grieving their loss is something I won’t ever forget. Greg’s grace and decency clearly came from what he saw at home from his remarkable parents.
I was thinking about Greg and the other kids at MDA camp recently when Abby Tegnelia, a colleague, and I visited with Ed Guthrie, executive director of Opportunity Village, one of Las Vegas’ greatest treasures. As many of you know, Opportunity Village is an organization that serves people with intellectual disabilities and helps them with work and play. In other words, Opportunity Village helps them become fully socialized, productive people—an invaluable gift. It’s a thing of beauty to watch in action. As Ed spoke to Abby and me, many of the special needs individuals approached us, smiling, asking for hugs. A very moving experience to be sure.
The more I learn about Las Vegas, the one constant I believe is that this great city has the heart of a great town and it’s rightfully proud of its long history of philanthropy and giving back. As I think about Greg, my brotherly superhero, I believe Las Vegas would’ve been his kind of town: Fun, electric, alive. I also know Greg’s smile would’ve lit up the Strip just like he lit up my soul. I miss you, brother.