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You could say we had a five-year age difference — except for the fact that they were five times my age. In a way, it is as if these people were not merely acquaintances or friends, but rather sagacious knowledge-givers, ordinary people who unintentionally shaped my views on relationships and the meaning of life. And for them, I am thankful.

You might be asking yourself: Who are these omniscient people that this random kid speaks so highly about? Well, they are the residents of an assisted living facility at which I volunteered last summer.

Let’s start from the beginning. As part of my high school’s graduation requirements, students were asked to volunteer at a place where they could see themselves working in the future. During this time, although I was interested in both math and the natural sciences, I had a particular fascination with the content in a biopsychology class I was taking — the functioning of the brain as it ages. Thus, with an assisted living facility right down the street, I thought it would be a great idea to employ my academic knowledge in a realistic setting. My grandmother was actually a resident there in the early months of COVID-19, so I was well accustomed to the building layout and the variety of activities conducted there on a daily basis. Long story short, I applied as a volunteer, and they were more than happy to have me. Now let us address the question: What made these people so interesting?

In answering this question, I am brought back to two separate occasions (For fun, we will call them “The Loving Mother” and “Dubiousness: A Field Day Version”). The first instance took place towards the beginning of my time at this facility. The activities director invited a tour representative from The Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) to engage the residents’ appreciation of art. It also served as a means of cognitive stimulation, as many residents had difficulty with memory and higher-order thinking. As an 18-year-old who had never taken a true art class, I invited myself to their seminar. What could I lose? I remember seeing a podium at the front of the room with a painting on it. At first glance, I could make out an older figure — possibly a parent or grandparent — whispering in a young child’s ear. To say the least, I wondered how significant this image could really be. Boy, was I wrong. The woman asked the residents to internally connect with the painting and to describe how it made them feel. Hands fired in the air! “That is my mother on my front steps before the first day of second grade.” “No! It is my great aunt during a Christmas party we had back in the ‘80s.” The brightness of the light bulbs illuminating was truly a sight to see. Here I sat, amazed and engrossed, surrounded by people who could barely recall the time of day but who could vividly convey the details of their past lives through the lens of a seemingly straightforward painting.

The title of my second story, “Dubiousness: A Field Day Version,” may seem ambiguous, but it really is told just as it sounds. The assisted living facility sits right next to the only school in my town. In fact, I was a student at the school when the facility was being built. It was a sunny day with a sweltering June heat. I remember getting out of my car with sweat dripping from my forehead but also with an extremely loud speaker booming just over the fence. As I walked up the stairs to see the residents, one stopped me abruptly. “I saw you out there! My room has a window where I can see the kids! Miss Heather said it was Field Day, and I told her that I had been watching you play games for ages.” Me? I questioned the woman, but she stubbornly proclaimed that it was most definitely me whom she saw. She described my actions, my mannerisms and my tenacity as a competitor — even though I had been sleeping all morning. I wondered: Could she have been watching my brother? I would say we mostly look alike, and he took part in that Field Day. Nonetheless, it warmed my heart to realize that these residents appreciated my presence.

Amidst this array of unique events, nature’s unpredictability reigned upon us. I am from a small town in New Jersey, about 45 minutes south of New York City. In the early months of summer, my area was hit with an Air Quality Index of over 400 due to the Canadian wildfires, signifying a terribly dangerous environment. Most may envision staying inside with the orange-yellow colors pressed up against their windows, but I highly doubt that many considered the adverse side effects this air quality had on vulnerable populations (namely, those in nursing homes and assisted living facilities). On one particular Wednesday after finishing a shift, I walked through the sliding glass doors into what felt like a fiery haze. I saw people speeding through the parking lot and running their loved ones inside. I saw several older residents who were due for appointments sitting together on the same lobby couch, as they were told by staff that residents could not leave the building at all that day. One nurse even rapidly dispersed masks to everyone, as the air was so dense collecting in people’s throats. In the following days, the temperatures increased to the point where a heat wave knocked out all the electricity in my town — including much of the facility’s power that wasn’t supported by a generator. I watched as the activities director worked through a critical problem: organizing events without the outdoor patio space nor any form of electronics. Nevertheless, she persevered and strove to provide residents with a meaningful daily agenda. Whether it was board games or group talk sessions, through adaptations, the employees in this industry were equipped to treat these elderly people with care while also serving as their protectors. For them, the unexpected can never truly be that unexpected.

These mini experiences and stories made volunteering at an assisted living facility so memorable and enlightening. I not only ameliorated my life skills on the basis of sympathy and acting as a considerate listener, but I also gained insight into life outside the teenage world — both mental and physical. I miss my “friends” and will most certainly visit them soon. But for now, I shall learn about myself and bring to them the same amount of knowledge that they so graciously instilled upon me.