There was tension in the air of the tiny living room as I stood facing my parents, a messy table on one side and a green sofa on the other. I was frowning hard to hold my tears from running down my cheeks as I stared at my opponent – my mother. I could feel something stuck in my throat, and I was so angry that my mind felt disconnected from my body. I could hear myself yelling and I could see my mother frowning with sadness written on her face. It was a Friday night, and I had just gotten back from hanging out with my friends, which was my weekly chance to breathe. However, my parents always seemed to complain about it, as if they wanted to cage me at home. That night, I finally exploded. “I’VE HAD ENOUGH!” I heard myself shout, still holding back the tears.

From earning good grades to joining and taken on clubs to my job as a mentor with young children, I was a typical, overworked junior in high school. As the year went on, it all weighed quite heavily on my shoulders. I felt like a donkey carrying a huge load of luggage on my back, unable to see what was weighing me down as I walked down an endless path. It was the path of doing well in school, getting into college, finding a reliable job and living a stable life. Once in a while, however, I felt like I needed to jump off that road, get those bags off my back and lay down on the grass facing the boundless sky so that I could breathe.

Over my 2011 summer, I finally had a chance to break away. I joined a program to travel and volunteer abroad in Cape Town, South Africa. One cold July morning, my group was assigned to repaint the wall of a bathhouse at a facility for needy women and children. We huddled together in a circle waiting for our equipment to arrive. All of a sudden, a three year old boy wearing a bright orange jacket peeked out from the edge of the bathhouse, looking at us. Out of boredom, we decided to play with him.

Every morning for the next week, when we arrived at the facility, the little boy would come find us with a sweet smile that cured our exhaustion from the hard labor. Fortunately, a member of our group was a South African, so we were able to communicate with him through her. Shockingly, we learned that he had already lost his mother and his father was missing. I tried to put myself in his shoes, but I could not. I asked myself, “Could I even have a life without my parents?” My parents had always been there for me. They provided me with food, shelter, and most importantly, love. I realized that I had been taking them for granted and that they only wanted to spend time with me. Listening to the little boy’s story, I thought back to that night in the living room and asked myself, “What have I been doing?”

Since I got back from that trip, I have changed. I am no longer the silly donkey who thought that I had to carry all of the luggage by myself. I have learned that if I look around, I can see my parents walking beside me, helping to carry my luggage to lessen the weight. I am not alone. Instead of jumping off the road and disappearing from my parents, I know I should take one step at a time, at a comfortable pace, along with them.

Featured Essay: Emily Ruth McElhaney, Guatemala 2011. ~El Conocimiento le Abrirá Todos las Puertas (Knowledge Will Open All Doors)

As I arrive in the Guatemalan airport, I am surrounded by new voices in a language that I usually only hear during a fifty minute Spanish class five days a week. My senses are quickly overwhelmed. I am in a completely new country, alone. Making it through customs, with help from strangers, I emerge into a crowded parking lot, looking for someone else in a red shirt; that is what we were told to wear so we could find each other; I don’t know if the GLA staff realized that all Mayan clothing is extremely colorful and entire families wait at the airports for long-awaited loved ones. I, however, have two strangers in very Americanized clothing awaiting me. Fredy, a taxi driver in the city of Antigua, spots me first. We quickly become close friends, talking about life, differences in our cultures, and tons of jokes including: illegal driving, “jus keeding” about everything, and my soccer skills. Although Fredy informs me about situations and customs of his country, it does not prepare me for what I am about to see.

Driving through rural Guatemala, I understand why Fredy wanted to prepare me. The conglomerations of houses resemble a junk yard as I look at them from our quickly moving van. They are made from old, rusty, corrugated metal. The roofs leak, turning the dirt floors into mud. Massive mudslides cover much of the road; there is a cross honoring those who died when a bus fell through a pothole where the earth had been washed away from the torrential downpours of the rainy season. Dogs roam the streets in packs, searching for food scraps, trying to feed their puppies milk with some nutrients in them. I see the hardships of those in a developing country that I couldn’t fathom from pictures; I have yet to see the people’s gracious and loving spirits a camera cannot capture.

I arrive at La Escuela Rural Pueblo Viejoin Tecpán and am greeted by over a hundred kids from the ages of six to thirteen. I can’t believe those are their ages; they are much too small. José, one of our leaders, confirms that indeed those are their ages, many suffering from malnutrition along with the already small stature of Latinos. Boys are dressed in traditional American clothing, some wearing tennis shoes, others wearing rainboots, but the girls wear brightly colored Mayan clothing with either Mary Janes or sandals. I learn that boys or men who wear traditional Mayan clothing are discriminated against when looking for a job. The rainboots set apart the children who have been up since the rooster crowed, working with their parents on the fields before school. The Spanish voices take over my thoughts. I don’t mind, however. All of this excitement and confusion translates into my acceptance by the children. José says something to the kids and they grow silent. Marcantionio, Rosita, and other children hold on tight to my fingers; they have already decided that we will become friends. I am surrounded by love and compassion from strangers, children who don’t speak my language, some who don’t speak at all.

On the second day at our hotel in the mountains, we notice a group of neighbor children that have begun waiting for us on the driveway. It is rainy and cold, but that doesn’t stop the older children. As we are running into the hotel, Kevin, at the front of the pack, stops by the kitchen. We get hot chocolate and lunch to take to the five kids on the driveway; the baby is inside. They invite us in the house to eat on the makeshift table and we begin sharing the modest meal that has been prepared for us. Laughing and playing with the kids, it is the most fun I’ve had in awhile. Their mother hands us the baby, Julio, so she can tend to the children’s clothes. Our differences evaporate into thin air. For a moment, we are all kids having fun, not judging each other.

Life has grown simpler. For these few days, I am free from the technological dependency I know so well at home. I am relating to people one on one, getting to know individual children. There is one deaf boy, my baby, who cannot express his feelings through words. He shows affection through small, silent, tender gestures; his fingers are running through my hair; he sits in my lap while we paint. He cannot say a word, but I know exactly what he is telling me.

This is the third day in a row that I am playing soccer with the older boys. Our field, a muddy, partly concrete patch of land, is much different from the perfectly manicured field I am used to at home. The ball is flat and has next to no shape; we don’t wear shoes because most of the players only have one pair. We all share lukewarm water out of my water bottle, playing through the scorching heat and the pouring rain. Many of the boys wear the same clothes they wore the days before. The first day they treated me like the privileged American they know I am, but today, covered in mud and sweat, I am just another kid trying to get away from the grind of everyday life.

Both at the hotel and the school, we learn about ourselves, the other people on the trip, and the kids whose school we have improved. We adapt to a new culture and language with minimal help from translators. Thousands of miles from home, my eyes are opened to a new world, one where food in your belly, clothes on your back, and the ability to go to school constitute a good day, a world where color, social status, and money don’t matter, a place where a smile and small gestures substitute for verbal communication. I am here to live like they do, to laugh, smile, love, and play soccer. In this back-to-basics community, my immune system is strengthened, my smile is broadened, my heart and soul are broken into two parts, one in Mobile, Alabama; one on the dirt patch at La Escuela Rural Pueblo Viejoin Tecpán, the most alive place I know.

Walking into a room with 32 American youth, I listened to the Costa Rican teacher as he spoke in fluent Spanish. Not even three years of Spanish classes could have prepared me for this moment. I was in a classroom teaching English at La Libertad, a school in a small town in San Dimas, Costa Rica. I was chosen for a leadership program called Summer Search that provides low-income students with year-long mentoring and two adventurous summer service trips. I was excited to be given such a valuable opportunity, but I was also afraid of being away from home and so out of my element.

However, seeing the enthusiasm of the kids on my first day as an English teacher melted away my anxiety and I could see how much I would be changed by them. The kids followed me around and I could see their faces light up every time I taught them a new English word. Their eagerness and enthusiasm to learn was infectious and encouraged me to teach them more. I transformed a simple childhood game of “Go Fish” using words instead of numbers to become the springboard for many English lessons. Every morning, I looked forward to the bright faces of the kids running up to the bus as we pulled up.

In Costa Rica, education is highly coveted. The children climbed muddy mountains, trekked through rivers, and even crossed country borders just to come to school even when it was not in session. Their never ending commitment and passion for learning made me see education in different ways.

Before this trip, I felt that my own poverty limited my opportunities, but here, in a place surrounded by poverty, the kids did not allow it to limit theirs. As I once saw myself as impoverished and disadvantaged, I no longer allow that aspect of my life to define me. Although my immigrant mother cannot provide me with educational support, she did, however, provide me with a different outlook on life that other people may not have experienced. She taught me to be independently driven, both in and outside the classroom.
Before travelling to Costa Rica, I thought that all learning came from within the classroom. Instead, the children taught me that learning depends on a person’s desire for knowledge. My desire to get out of poverty pushed me to study harder and challenge myself further. The children I encountered in Costa Rica reinforced this belief and showed me that education is not limited to the classroom, but can be found in everyday life. I am always learning as long as I am open to it. I am proud that I was able to help those in need in Costa Rica. Seeing the smiles on the kids’ faces, who do not have much, made me love what I was doing and appreciate what I have at home even more. I believe that as long as I have a thirst for knowledge and consistently push myself, I can excel under any circumstances.

Living with a roof over my head, sustaining nourishment on the table each night, and a great academic school to return to each September makes it difficult to remember that some people live without these privileges. The simplicity of transportation or finding something to eat for a meal overshadows the reality that some people go days at a time without food, or are never able to leave their hometown. This summer I traveled to the Dominican Republic with a summer program of 15 high school volunteer students to study sustainability within impoverished urban and rural communities and see these world issues first hand. Throughout my stay in the Dominican Republic, I took a special interest in the poor educational system that was available to the Dominican children.

The second day of my stay I was able to learn the issues with the educational system of the Dominican Republic. The whole group started the day with what we were told would be an “easy” hike to the top of Brison Mountain. This “easy” hike became a two-hour continuously steep ascent that left us drenched in sweat and extremely exhausted. With burning calves we made our way to our final destination, a one-room schoolhouse where we were met by the bright-eyed, smiling school children that took our hands and led us inside.

Packing into the schoolhouse, we squeezed into the tiny desks so graciously offered to us as the school children sat on the floor. We were greeted by Manuel, the sole schoolteacher for all 30 children who attended the school. He acquainted us with the usual school day and the set up of two classes; one taught in the morning for children grades five to seven, and one in the afternoon for grades one to four. I was surprised when finding out that the limitation of school supplies was not their biggest setback, but their inability to teach past grade seven due to the lack of funds to buy and install lights.

Without lights, children that wish to continue their education are given the option of commuting one hour down the mountain of Brison to a school that provides education till age eighteen. Some children, with relatives in the town of the other school, typically move in with that relative. Those without that convenience commonly find it impossible to maintain their education and still help support their family after school hours. For me, the thought of taking the path we all had so much difficulty hiking to school each day seems almost unbearable, and all due to the lack of a few hundred dollars for lights.

In the United States, children are guaranteed a school education within close vicinity to their house. No child experiences a two mile walk—up or down hill—to arrive at to school each morning. By having a private high school experience, I am grateful that I was able to take advantage of meeting with teachers one-on-one, small class sizes, and a close-knit community that motivated me to do well. Good education is something that should be available to every child. A child without an education is unlikely able to have a profitable life. More importantly, that child is unable to expand their horizon and have awareness in depth of the world around them.

Studying in the Dominican Republic allowed me to step out of the comfort zone of my small school community and experience a different culture. Witnessing the education system in the Dominican has taught me to be thankful each day of all the resources that are available to me. I now remember to appreciate each class and remember that every test and exam is attributing to the betterment of myself. When I don’t perform as well as I would have liked on a test I remember the smiling Dominican children holding my hand as I walked through the door of their one room school house.

As I stood in front of a group of strangers on an expansive plain in South Africa under a hazy winter’s twilight, I first realized I could become something greater than myself. As a high school volunteer, I had traveled nine thousand miles to a land that was completely foreign to me, and after two weeks of living in Cape Town, I found myself standing in what was undoubtedly one of the most important moments of my life.

A group of international students, including myself, spent the day visiting a group of homeless residents of Khayelitsha, a township of the Mother City, who had been living on a plain despite efforts by the truculent police force to evict them. We first met in the tent maintained by the community for communal gatherings. We then toured the living conditions, which were so deplorable that most families had to resort to sleeping under bushes or holes in the ground that they had dug. Finally we all gathered again outside the main tent to eat the meal that we had prepared for them earlier in the day.

As the African sun descended, and the air filled with the mellow atmosphere of a subequatorial winter, the children were finishing up their cups of soup and bread, and were now playing with the dog that the community owned. Our group leader then pulled me aside. He said to me, “How would you like to say a few words?” I did not know how to respond to this, but by the time I had given it a thought, I realized the optimistic chatter of children around us had died down and most eyes were on me.

At this point I realized I didn’t have a choice. Still I was afraid I would embarrass myself, or worse, the group. What if I said something ridiculous or politically incorrect? An overwhelming nervousness began to kick in, but it dissipated as I began to look at the eyes that were watching me in that moment. The adults, wearing sad smiles, conveyed simple human frustration about being unable to feed their young. The children themselves, overjoyed about finally meeting a white American and with their bellies full from the soup kitchen earlier, seemed eager to hear what I had to say. I could hesitate no longer; it was time to speak. I opened my mouth.

I began by introducing myself and named cities where all of us students were from: New York, Barcelona, Shanghai, Seattle, Los Angeles. We were truly an international force connecting on this one plain. Next, I tried to explain the effect that the afternoon had had on us, but the force was just so immense, words seemed to slip by me. Instead of thinking before I spoke, I began to just speak, letting the eyes of the starved people I was looking at inspire my words. When I was finished, I remember the sad smiles of the adults changing to reflect an optimistic glow. I remember the hugs of the children, their laughter emanating from a place that has been the subject of police brutality, famine, and death.

Most of all, I remember a man approaching me afterwards, shaking my hand, and telling me – “When you return to South Africa, I will be waiting for you with my family, down in my hole in the ground.” That night I realized for the first time I could be someone greater than who I already am. I realized that with just one little push, the elimination of all of my hesitation could yield immense rewards not only for me, but for all those around me. If I could apply what happened that night in Africa to all aspects of my life, I am now convinced I can do wonders with my life, and more importantly, with the lives of others.

One day I plan to return to Khayelitsha to seek out the man who lived with his family in the hole. He should know that with just a few words, he changed my life forever.