“Homeless people are filthy, foul, unsanitary people. Do not give them money or help them in any way because they are valueless, and will spend any penny you give them on alcohol and drugs”, snorted my parents to me, a young girl who had yet to understand about life and all of its cruelties. I’m sixteen years old right now, and all of my life I’ve been told that homeless people are not “deserving” people. That is just how I have been raised. With that said, I was apprehensive about going to Andre House, a soup kitchen in Phoenix, Arizona on a chilly October night. On the bus drive there, I was just silent because thoughts were intoxicating my mind about what that night had to offer. My heart was racing at a million miles per hour. I was biting on my nails and just trying to keep my composure. Typical nervous habits. My perception of homeless people was generally negative, I hate to admit. “How hard is it to get a job?” I would always ask myself in a naïve manner. I quickly came back down to Earth and let all my past experiences and thoughts disintegrate from my mind at that very moment because at that second the whole group started to vacate the bus. I reluctantly forced myself to drag my feet that felt as if they were 500 pounds into the building that smelled of cigarettes, sweat, and soup. I kept telling myself, “You will get through this night and get all the community service hours you need, just relax”, then I tried to shake off the tension I felt. Not too long after my arrival, all of the volunteers and staff members gathered in the same room to receive their stations and get instructions on what to do. In a heartbeat, I went into the back of the room where nobody could see me. I was invisible. That is until the instructor called my name, and told me to hand out tortillas in “the tortilla station”. I did what I was told to do. All I remember at that point was the agony, the nervousness, and the distress I was feeling. At around 4 o’clock, the doors uproariously flung open, and I was the first station these people were directed at. Half heartedly and without eye contact, I briskly extended my arm and handed out a tortilla, one for each dirty hand that I laid my eyes on. These feelings went on as time dragged on. Suddenly, a man came up to me for his tortilla. He had matted hair, blotchy skin, and his clothes looked like he had not changed them in at least 5 years; his stench as well proved that to be true. He smiled at me, but not just any smile. This was one of those smiles as bright as day, one that reaches out to you and warms your heart. He gratefully looks straight into my eyes, and thanks me. This encounter, although extremely simple, changed the way I saw the world. I realized in great amounts the ignorance of myself and others. My cheeks flushed, turning a red that can compared to blood, cherries, or fire. Shame. I observed these people the rest of the night, and I concluded that honestly I do not know these people and what their story is because I did not previously take the time to care when I should have. I knew that I let other people’s prejudice manipulate the way I think. I knew these people deserve much better, and I realized everyone needs a warm bed to sleep on at night, warm food, and appropriate clothing. This trip to Andre House was definitely a turning point in my life; it taught me a valuable lesson, inspired me to be a better person and learn to give back to the community. Now I volunteer more and more often, and I never look at any homeless person, or any person in general, in contempt. Volunteering was a worthy decision I have made in my life, and I urge people around me to do the same as I share the knowledge I have obtained up until this point to people who were misinformed of homeless people.