A child is born to illiterate parents in rural Liberia. When she is four or five, they decide to send her to live with friends in Monrovia, the capital, hoping she will have more opportunities there.  The auntie she is sent to stay with puts her to work right away and rarely provides food for her, but the girl is clever and smart and manages to get by. One day, a community volunteer or maybe a social worker notices the girl selling peanuts or candy or fish; the girl stands out, she is clearly bright. The community volunteer or social worker makes a phone call, which leads to another phone call, which leads to a meeting, and eventually to an interview with the girl and her guardian or maybe even her parents. Six months later, the girl is in school for the first time.

This is a typical story for a lot of the children in More than Me’s program. It is part of our story as an organization- maybe you’ve heard us mention, “getting girls off the street and into school.” Not every child in our program has to deal with being separated from her family or friends, but all of them have grown up in an environment that constantly puts them at risk and where, because of cost, access, and accountability, they are denied an education. Often times, things are often more complicated than just “getting girls off the street”; there is more to the story.

We have written before about the hurdles facing the girls in our program, how success is measured in small increments, but sometimes the most difficult moments come months or even years after that first day of school.

One of the kids in our program was caught stealing. The child was doing well in school, has been with More than Me for almost as long as More than Me has been around, and has a warm relationship with all of us. This wasn’t the first time it happened, but instead of candy it involved money, electronics, and a shattering of trust. The child’s grades have started slipping. As the child approaches her teenage years, she has grown angry and less affable- who can blame her?- but we must do something. We know she can do well in school because we have seen it in the past.

What can we do? More than Me is different than most non-profits because we are founded on relationships. We are not a logo or a celebrity spokesperson or a provocative video. We have pooled together supporters through talks, social media, and small meetings. In Liberia, we know all of our girls personally. We have been to their houses, we know where their family is from, we know their parents or guardians, we know the children’s stories, their hopes and dreams. As an organization that wants to make the most of our generous donor’s support and run an efficient and accountable program, we know we cannot put money toward education if no education is being had. We also know what will happen if a girl is not in school, not working toward something more than selling peanuts or herself, and we know the potential of all of the children in our program.

This question, “what can we do?,” is one reason we are working to build a safe house. Still, that goal is almost a year away, so in the near-term we need something else.

All of the donations made to More than Me go toward a girl’s education. In some cases though, when a girl wants to go to school, but is not doing well and is having issues outside of school that affect her performance in the classroom, we look for creative ways to keep her off the street and make her future bright.

One of the most inspiring examples of this is Abigail, who after running away from home and struggling in class is now in a boarding school and at the top of her class. In other cases, like stealing, we have our field staff  jump in. Daily visits have led to vocational training, a new place to stay, and a new direction.

Many of the girls More than Me works with have similar stories, but all of them are different, dynamic, and driven. We are not a cookie cutter non-profit, and we want to provide creative ways to help the girls of Liberia. So many people have given up on the girls in our program; they have been failed in so many ways. Our recruitment and vetting process is designed to avoid future difficulties in the classroom, but we know that our girls deserve a real chance.

Bad grades? Trouble with family? Anti-social behavior? Don’t call it failure. Each girl’s story is still being written. Work-training, boarding school, mentorships, daily visits. By coordinating with community members, our field staff, and parents and guardians, we are making sure that these girls really do get off the street and, yes, into school.

This entry in our continuing series, Volunteer Spotlight, posts five questions for Demi. Demi lives in Charlotte, North Carolina, and has helped More than Me with PR advice, proof reading, and spreading the word about our work in Liberia.

What do you live for?
Everything. I am owner of Girl Friday PR, with clients in NASCAR and women’s professional sports.  I’m a yoga instructor, passionate marathoner & Chi Runner, Charlotte Rollergirls Roller Derby girl.  My biggest job: mom to two little “Pistol Annies,” Maizie and Willa.

What are you passionate about?
Life. Change. Veganism and healthy holistic living. Motivating and inspiring others to love something, to turn on the light bulb and make positive changes.  Being fearless.  Environmental conservation. Women’s rights and empowerment.  Education. Freedom for all sentient beings. Did I leave anything out?

How did you hear about More than Me?
I boarded a plane from Newark, New Jersey to Charlotte – one that I had upgraded to try to get home early to my girls, but which ended up leaving about the same time my original flight would have left.  I sat down a little downtrodden after a long business trip, when lo and behold, who sits next to me? Katie Meyler, founder of MoreThanMe.org.  We chatted  about everything from veganism to Title IX, and everything in between.

What struck me most was that she was so passionate about these girls in Liberia, and, being in PR, I knew that she would be successful in telling the story.  We’re all storytellers in life – and those who want to impart change must be the soothsayers who not only tell the story to the masses, but also “turn on the light” in someone’s heart to make them feel that same plight and want to change the outcome.  After a two-hour flight, my bags were all but packed for Liberia.  I will be making the trek to Africa this summer with the team!

What does More than Me mean to you?
Hope. It’s that simple.  I just finished reading an excerpt from Al Gore’s 2007 Nobel Peace Prize lecture, and in it he makes a plea for us as a society to come together.  As they say, rising tides sail ships – so one person may be able to be a change agent- but it’s up to the rest of us to become enlightened enough inside to see a picture and not just open our wallets. It is up to us to live the change.  Katie lives her change with More Than Me.  As a yoga instructor, I’ve learned that touching one life actually touches everyone in that one life’s circle.  Life has a bigger meaning than iPads, texting, material goods and looking important.  For the 21st Century, our best chance is to dive into service to others.  I see that wholeheartedly in the mission of More Than Me.

Why do you care about helping girls get to school that you never met?

Yesterday, Jacob posted about some of the hard facts in Liberia. They come straight from the Liberian Government, along with the UN and USAID. It is unbelievable that people are alive in these conditions and the world allows it. Not to be dramatic, but we NEVER EVER have the right to feel sorry for ourselves. If I ever complain a day in my life, please email me, write on my wall, call me. Tell me to shut up and get back to work.

I’m sitting at a table in a vegan restaurant after eating a bagel and drinking coffee. I have to stop to appreciate the road I drove on to get here. When I get dressed in the a.m., I don’t think about how privileged I am to choose what color I want to wear. I take brushing my teeth for granted. I look in the mirror and I am sometimes grossed out by my acne. Thinking about it now, it’s a privilege to have a mirror. The Liberians we work with don’t have mirrors. They like to see photos of themselves not because they are vain, but because it is one of the few times they get to see what they look like, to share their image.

As you read in the previous post, one of our girls was raped last week. I want to scream at the top of my lungs. Every time I think about this I want to yell. No matter how much we do, we can only do so much. These girls are not protected the way that you and I are- by police, the law, and neighbors. It makes me want to vomit.

We are working toward an after-school building. It sounds corny, but this will make as much of a difference in their lives as an education. We want to teach them everything- math, science, reading, health education, and more- so they can protect themselves and escape the hell they have no choice but to live in.

It’s absolute insanity and intolerable that this kind of extreme poverty still exists with all of the technology, intelligence, and research we have. It must stop. It is a slow genocide.

Please do me a favor today and kiss the ground you walk on. Get over whatever stupid judgment you have about yourself and those around you. Love everyone you can, even if you don’t like them. There is no room for hate. It is time to be radical. It is time to reject pettiness. There is no time for bullshit. Bigger things need our attention.

Rape is horrific. Try to imagine what it takes for a little girl to get raped. We can’t understand what it is like for this girl, but we can understand the failures that led to her losing her childhood. Keep her in your head when the neurons in your brain take your thoughts anywhere but to gratitude.

Now, let’s get back to work.

Mercy

Yesterday, was one of the best days of my life. I went with Macintosh to the bank to get money for our kid’s school lunches for the week and we decided to stop by one our student’s homes. Princess lives behind the bank with friends of relatives. We were walking back to the main road when, for the first time, I noticed a tall-ransacked building with bright laundry hanging and children laughing with tons of families living on every floor. I pointed it out to Macintosh, he took some pictures while I headed toward the building.

I met Mercy. She is seven years old and has cerebral palsy. I held her close. I asked her grandmother if I could go inside their home, and she brought me through a curtain in a pitch-black moist room that reeked of mold. I held a lit candle and could see the ceiling was caving. I fought to silence the voices and emotions that were at battle inside my head- I wanted to be fully present with the grandmother and her daughter. I wanted to cry, but for what? This was their life. Were they happy? They laughed. They smiled. They seemed happy. Were they mad at their government, at humanity for letting them suffer like this? Did the grandmother need to blame anyone? All of these questions were running through my head. They were just living their lives one day at a time together.

I had to keep on walking to meet more families. A guy about my age took Macintosh, Princess, and me up the broken stairs of what he told us was an old hospital that had been destroyed in the war. I was really scared the stairs would collapse as we walked. The people we met were happy to see me, and invited me into the rooms that they had made into homes. The building was full of bullet holes, and the families told me the biggest problem was that the roof leaked and the rooms would fill up with water. Monrovia is the second wettest capital in the world and it rains almost every day for at least half the year, mold was everywhere.

I love walking the streets looking at all the cool stuff that Americans throw away that end up for the sale in the market here. I like the chaos, the sun, the street food, I like the smiles of the beggars and even the aggressive business’ women. I bought a new winter hat for a dollar; Princess got a new outfit too.

The day went on as we weaved in and out of the narrow tins shacks in an area that is notoriously dangerous, but a place where I feel most at peace inside myself. Some of our children’s parents are the pimps and the gangsters and they watch out for me. Now that we have 100 students in a place where words spread like poison ivy people know the crazy white girl, her friends, and her camera are there because they love children.

The sun was going down and I saw people crowded around a candle weeping, someone’s new born baby died.

I try my hardest to feel what people feel. I wonder how life would be if I owned nothing but the shirt filled with holes on my back. If my mom or sister was sick and I was powerless to help them because we lived on less than a dollar a day, which we sweat in the hot sun laboring to fight for. Would I be able to love as loud as these people do? Would I have half the resilience, peace and joy?

In the face of big problems, the real joys in life seem simple. They are all around, sometimes in places you would never expect. Why do we make it so complicated?