Towards the end of eighth grade, I realized that I would need 100 volunteer hours to graduate high school. And I had to start soon, if I was going to get ahead of the game. It seemed like I was running out of ideas. Then it came to me, why not work with Spanish speaking immigrants? I was learning Spanish at the time, and I figured it'd be a great way to pursue academics while helping the community.

Soon after, I came across the Sacred Heart Center, which helps Latinos learn English and become citizens in Richmond, Virginia. There were many ways that I could have helped out with this organization, like making spreadsheets, teaching English, or even doing physical labor. But given my limited skill set, I figured being a counselor for 5 to 10-year-olds would be best for me.

At the time, I only knew a little Spanish. So this age group seemed like an effective way to improve, without being too overwhelmed. I was then scheduled to offer my services every Tuesday for the entire month of July. Before I knew it, the time came to pack my bag, fill my water bottle, and embark for the day.

I won't sugarcoat it, I was terrified. I was also a little bit excited too, like how I used to feel on the first day of school. I knew, even if I hated every second of the coming weeks, I would suffer through it. And I might even learn something. What that something was never really crossed my mind.

In the passenger seat on the way there, I barely noticed the onslaught of stoplights and consignment shops for the next 20 minutes. Suddenly, the car stopped. After a brief skirmish with a locked front door, I was finally inside the building, ready for whatever chaos would sure ensue. The whole building with its architectural grandeur, arched halls, big doors, and even a gym seemed to tower over me.

Not long after, the little niños strolled in one by one. I felt out of place, largely because everyone had already met each other the day before on Monday. To make matters worse, I was also the youngest counselor, incidentally, the one who knew the least Spanish. However, despite all this, I began to make some simple progress in conversations, draw pictures, make paper airplanes for the kids.

Interestingly enough, I became known for my paper airplane making and flying skills, meaning I had to fold sheet after sheet in the coming weeks to appease over a dozen frantic children. As noble as I thought this whole experience would be, my work ended up consisting of mostly menial tasks, like taking kids to the bathroom and asking, te lavaste las manos, if they hadn't washed their hands.

As time progressed, I began to feel more comfortable in my environment, both with the children and the other counselors. Some of the younger ones started calling me Mr. Henry, which would make my heart melt. Call me selfish, but that's the type of thing that really drives me onward. I could talk about serving the community and kindness and stuff like that until your ears bleed, but that would be a facade on my part. In all honesty, I care much more about little things like Mr. Henry than doing good for good sake.

To start off each morning, we would eat bananas, draw pictures of submarines, race each other with paper airplanes, and argue about whose Pokemon was better. Afterward, we would start the day's main activity. The first of which was a trip to the collegiate Olympic swimming pool nearby.

On the first bus ride, I lent a boy named Jesus my phone so he could play Temple Run. This drove everyone who didn't get to play off the rails. Needless to say, fights over who could get my phone to play Temple Run became routine and commonplace, to the point where I almost had to cut them all off completely. Though these bus trips happened a lot, they weren't a part of everyday I volunteered.

Some of the other trips we went on included to the James River, the previously mentioned pool, and the infamous children's museum. To the kids, this glorified playground was the talk of the town. All of these have their own stories and adventures, but none seem worth mentioning for the time being.

On some less eventful occasions, we stayed at Sacred Heart and let the activities come to us. We learned about many different cultures through mediums that a 5-year-old could understand, like clapping, dancing, singing, all that. The kids loved dancing to the beat of two African drummers, all the while embracing a simple understanding of the origins of music. A Latin American ballerina visited too. Most of the kids, the girls especially, had no problem dancing their hearts out with her. We also had a tech group come and teach us about robotics, and a game developer about electrical circuits.

Keep in mind, everything was hands on. Well, everything except soccer. During one of our games, one boy didn't let another play. This bully seemed pretty abrasive on the outside. But upon getting to know him a little better, I learned he didn't know a word of English and had a hard time making friends. In the end, I did my best to resolve the conflict and let everyone play peacefully.

And I don't know if there's a lesson to be learned here or a moral to find. But one thing is definitely clear for me, people are so much more than what they show the world. I hate to say it, but if I was his age, I probably would have avoided him. I would have seen the few traits he let show, and I would have defined him by that, killing our friendship before it could have even begun.

We went inside. This would be the last Tuesday of my volunteering, and the last circle time too. Circle time was aptly named and pretty self-explanatory. It was where we sat in a circle and talked about how the day went and what happened. On that day, I brought my guitar and sang a song to everyone around me. When they cheered for encore, I had no choice but to play another one.

Eventually, and with a heavy heart, I and everyone else had to leave. The last to walk out the door on that hot summer day, I wiped the sweat off my forehand and left a changed man. I didn't immediately notice the change though, it was subtle. I've learned that helping other people was the first step towards helping myself. Even now, that's a tough concept for me to grasp. Introspection, the art of finding out who you really are, is one of the hardest things in life. But putting myself out there made it just a little bit easier.

That summer, I made a decision. I could have spent the whole time watching YouTube and eating hummus. I'll admit that was a big part of it. But I took initiative. I didn't want anyone to feel alone or left out, so I started volunteering.

Of course, I would have doubts, like what if I'm not really helping anyone, or what if they don't need my help in the first place? Well, these doubts were just words, and I've learned that a deed is worth so much more than that. At camp, it became clear that even if I can't save the world, I can still do my part in helping it run just a little bit more smoothly.