I was in the fifth grade when I did my first Walk for Humanity. I’m not certain I knew what it meant, but I took the pledge sheet and walked around our neighborhood to get signatures and promises. Maybe it was a nickel a mile. Ten cents. A quarter. Maybe this was the most “human” part of it all. This neighborhood knew me. Knew the strength of my legs. Had watched me run the field, ride the bike, and so they said things like, “Of course you’ll make it, I know you’re going to do it.” And if I’m honest, it was the only humanity I was thinking of when I walked the miles that Saturday morning. These were my people. They knew my bedtime. The call of my mother. My wave from the bottom of the hill to the top. How my blonde hair whipped in the wind. And I didn’t want to let them down. 

It was a rainy morning. I was fueled with Captain Crunch, and no knowledge of how far ten miles actually was. I had flat bumper tennis shoes and jeans purchased from Herberger’s basement. I was soaked from rain, puddles, and possibly a few tears at about mile eight. I had no idea where we were, but for the marked signs and groups of teenagers that I followed. I had to go to the bathroom so badly, but I was too shy to enter any house that offered those services for the day. I didn’t know them. This wasn’t Van Dyke Road. I had no idea how to even get back to Van Dyke Road. All I wanted was an open screen door that I recognized — like our resident neighborhood Grandma Dynda — a grandma that no one was related to, but who’s door was always open to kitchen and bathroom. What would she think of me if I quit? I couldn’t quit. I kept walking. Even Mrs. Muzik pledged for me. We couldn’t walk on her lawn, but she was paying me to walk across this new humanity. I kept walking. 

I wet my pants around mile nine. But no one noticed because I was already soaked. I never told anyone. People were so proud of me when I went to collect the money on Sunday that I forgot about it. They tousled my hair and filled my pockets with change and a few dollar bills. I don’t know if the tiny bit of money I raised made any difference at all to the cause, but for me, it was a fortune. I was rich in my neighborhood. This sea of humanity. 

My pledges are different now. Along with my neighborhood. But I keep walking. Hopes remaining ever high.