Last Tuesday, 20 members of the University's SJLA (Special Jesuit Liberal Arts) program arrived at Scranton's St. Francis of Assisi Kitchen for a service project. One would think we were there to serve food, but as its director, Msgr. Joseph P. Kelly, explained, that wasn't the point of this trip. We were going to sit down with the regular patrons of the kitchen and just...talk to them. I remember thinking, What? Why would they want to talk to us? I'm solidly middle-class, as are most of my classmates, and furthermore, I'm a freshman with no concept of what it's like to live without my parents' safety net. How in the world was I supposed to relate to them, or them to me?

But we had an hour to burn, so in nervous groups of two we got in line and sat down, determined to try. The dining room was nicer than I expected. The walls were painted a cheerful blue, with baskets of lush green plants hanging intermittently and red plastic poinsettias acting as colorful centerpieces on the tables. The food wasn't half bad, either. As it happened, that particular day was the one day of the month that all of the local pizzerias banded together and donated to the kitchen, so we had fresh pizza with our mixed fruit and frozen cherry pie.

Joining us at our table was a middle-aged man and an older woman. Pleasantries were exchanged; I said hello, recited my major like a scared middle-schooler who'd forgotten her lines in a play, and frankly expected the conversation to die there.

The man asked, "How old are you guys?"

"Eighteen."

The man and the woman looked at each other and laughed. Eighteen, God, they said to themselves. That'd been lifetimes ago for them. We were just kids.

Maybe that was why they were so willing to open up to us.

The man talked the most. He was 45, I discovered, balding slightly, with big, round glasses and bright eyes. He seemed to me to be a force of nature, exuberant and energetic, always in motion. Sometimes he'd slap his hand on the table as he talked, such was the force of his passion, and, quiet as I am, it was rare that I managed to get a word in edgewise. Mostly, he liked to give advice.

"Don't ever get involved with a guy," he told us. "You'll never hear that from a man. A woman might tell you not to mess around with guys, but not a man."

He didn't have kids. He didn't say if he had ever been married, but he was explicit about that. When he saw us, he said, he thought of those kids he'd never had, and he wanted to protect us. The best he could do was to pass on his experience to us, so that maybe in the long run we would make better choices than he did. "But I'm not gonna tell you the lows." He was adamant, leaning forward a little across the table. "It's bad stuff. It gets in your head. I want you guys to stay innocent."

However, he did mention a few things. He went to school three times. In fact, he was once in medical school, but, in his own words, he'd partied and chased after girls instead of hitting the books. Today, he was a certified electrician. "But I'm not doing anything with that, either," he said, and looked away. "I'm lazy. I gave up."

Much later, after everyone had left and we had helped to clean the tables and stack the chairs, I understood why he had told me this. Msgr. Kelly explained that for many of the guests, this kitchen was the only chance they had at socialization; they savored this opportunity to talk and be heard without judgement. After all, how much of society would extend them the courtesy? They lived in an underclass, largely ignored by the upper echelons of society until it started to erode their confidence, their sense of self.

I read recently that the principle suffering of the poor isn't the economic aspect, but shame. This man's shame had pushed him to explain away his misfortune with inherent character flaws—laziness, a lack of persistence. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but I couldn't find the words.

But though he didn't have confidence in himself, he had it in spades for us. "You girls are going to change the world," he said as he got up to leave. He'd known us for no more than forty minutes, two eighteen-year-olds with the privilege of money and education, and he already thought we were going somewhere. He didn't even know our names.

"I hope to," I said.

It's been about a week now, and I've had time to think about all of the things he said to me. So to the guy whose name I never learned:

Wherever you are, know you aren't lazy, or stupid, or broken. You're a person who's made some mistakes in life, and though you've given up, know that I haven't given up on you. Go ahead and roll your eyes. Naive though it might be, I believe in second chances, and maybe if I believe it hard enough it'll rub off on the people who need it the most.

I'm going to change the world, sir. And I hope one day you realize you can, too.