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.

As I stepped off of the dala dala onto the red dirt of the Himo School’s courtyard, I knew immediately ­– this was where I was meant to be. I was in Rau, Tanzania, a 45-minute drive from anywhere close to being recognizable as a town. Fred, the school principal, greeted us and led our group of thirteen into the small, dank room he called an office. Even though I’d come with low expectations, I was taken aback by the lack of supplies, space, and even usable desks for the 1,400 students. Our orientation consisted of a quick visit to each class and an overview of what they were learning. Then Fred gave us our assignment: teach English for two hours every day. We were on our own to figure out what to teach and how to teach it.

Luckily, our mentors had prepared us to anticipate this lack of direction, so we had brainstormed lesson plans before arriving. I chose to teach the eight year old group, not realizing this meant their knowledge of even basic English would be so limited. What made it even harder was the lack of accuracy in what they had already been taught. Students were learning to speak in present continuous, saying things like “I will running,” and they were given misinformation, like the capital of the United States is New York. We were presented with the challenge of re-teaching the already complex rules of English grammar.

The first day of class, the sixty pairs of eyes staring attentively at me were daunting. My uneasiness was compounded by the absence of a teacher in the room, who had decided it was a good time to take a paid day off. I could have used her assistance as a translator, given that I’d only had two Swahili lessons at that point. My teaching buddy, Andrew, and I had to learn by trial and error. We figured out that the students loved to sing, so we taught nouns through songs like Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes and Old MacDonald. To our delight, the kids were engaged, smiling and understanding the material.

Our next challenge was to get the students to let us know when they did not understand something we were teaching. They were afraid to make a mistake, and would not raise their hands. Andrew and I had the idea to bring them paper from our letter writing stash, a luxury for many of them. We asked them to spell the words for animals, and common objects. They were happy to participate in this exercise because they didn’t feel put on the spot. By looking at their writing, we gained insight into which students understood the concepts…and some actually did! I was so proud to see we were getting through to them! It was even more rewarding to work with the struggling children because, when they finally understood something, they were encouraged to learn more. I certainly developed a greater appreciation for my teachers and the lessons they create for us every day.

My first exposure to this connection between education and reducing poverty in underdeveloped countries was from Greg Mortenson’s book Three Cups of Tea.  It inspired a group of us to start a branch of his program, Stones into Schools, at our own school. We raised money to send girls in South East Asia to school. I loved being involved with this, and wanted to do more. I saw some of my fellow students getting involved with their passions beyond our own school, and I wanted to be a part of it. This is how I ended up working with GLA  in Tanzania. I decided to make a difference first-hand in someone’s education. Now that I am home, my enthusiasm for the Stones into Schools club is renewed. As an officer, I want to encourage more students to raise money or get involved in a bigger way by teaching, because it will change their lives and it is so rewarding.

As I prepare for college, I am excited to continue learning about underdeveloped countries and how I can make a difference. While I intend to study medicine, I plan to return to Tanzania to continue teaching, and also to pursue another dream of mine –making medical care more accessible in remote areas like Rau. I know it’s possible, and I am up for the challenge.

The scene is set in Xela, Guatemala, where a teenage boy is sick of shopping even though he has thoroughly enjoyed haggling with store owners for lower prices. He has a plastic soccer ball in his bag that he purchased for 3 quetzal or roughly 38 cents.  To entertain himself he takes the ball out and starts juggling it. After he plays for a while, some local children come up to him and ask “podemos jugar?” The boy can speak about 3 words of Spanish and has no idea what the children are saying, but he infers from their gestures that they want to play some futbol. He says “si” and they proceed to show him where the goals are and sort out teams.

One goal was between 2 glass bottles, and the other was the bottom of a set of steps. The impromptu game goes on for a little while and the boy eventually learns how to say “here” in Spanish. As the game goes on, more and more local children join. Their enthusiasm was contagious as each goal celebration mimicked a World Cup Final. The teenager eventually has to depart and the local children realize that their fun is over. They hand the ball back to the teenager, but he immediately says in his newly acquired Spanish “aqui” and hands the ball right back to the kids.

Confused at first, the kids quickly realize that the boy is giving them the ball, and their faces light up with joy. They had never expected when the game started that they would be the proud owners of a soccer ball. Soccer is a game that can help cross many boundaries, such as language, age and race and the teenage boy received a small taste of its ability to cross these borders.

If you haven’t guessed by now, this teenage boy was me. This little exchange as a high school volunteer  had a big impact and broadened my perspective on the world. Coming from a comfortable existence in a suburban town in New Hampshire it demonstrated to me that material things are not that important. I saw how these kids who had next to nothing were much happier in life than people with all the money in the world. These kids with no shoes, or shirts played for the sake of playing. At the end of the day it didn’t matter who the winner was, they played their hearts out simply because it made them happy. They taught me to appreciate the little things and gave me far more than a 38 cent ball would ever be worth.

I’m not the kind of girl who devotes every waking hour to “the cause.” I shop, I waste time online, and more often than I’d like to admit, I sit at home wishing my life were different yet never seeming to do anything about it—or at least I did.

I wish you could have seen the look on my parents’ faces when I told them I wanted to spend $6,000 on a high school volunteer abroad program in the Galápagos Islands. First thing they said? “Well, it sure isn’t going to be our money that gets you there.” And let me tell you, it wasn’t.

At a very minimum, I spent twenty hours per week during my summer vacation babysitting to the death. I signed over every paycheck to a seemingly insatiable debt that was my trip. At times, I nearly became convinced that it had become nothing more than a figment of my imagination. Yet, somehow, nothing had ever felt so right. Even now, when people ask me why I decided to go on this trip, I find myself at a loss for words. Perhaps a story will do justice.

It was our fourth day on the Islands and a peculiar man named Jefferson had apparently requested that my group take the day off of our usual volunteer work and come help him instead. We were told that Jefferson was an employee of the Galápagos National Park and that he manned the enormous greenhouse that services the entire island of San Cristóbal. We learned that because of park budget cuts, all of the other workers at this greenhouse had been laid off. Jefferson had been left on his own to tend to and distribute the thousands of plants that were growing in that palace of a greenhouse.

That particular day, he needed us to accompany him to a place on top of an old volcano called El Junco Lagoon. We were to be planting seedlings of the miconia plant—an endemic species that had been nearly wiped out of the area by invasive plants and animals. When we arrived at the base of the trail, the weather was miserable. High winds, rain, cold, mud, you name it. As we hiked up, the conditions only got worse. Most of the group was put off by this and begrudgingly carried on up the slippery trail. I, however, could not seem to help the euphoric sensations that were erupting inside of me. I felt so lucky and humbled to be of aid to this man who was so clearly in need of it.

As we began our work, I quickly fell into a rhythm with José, the man with whom we were both living and working for the rest of the week. As he dug, I transported and planted the miconia, carrying more and more back with me with each trip I took to the receding bins in which the plants were stored. Somehow, I could always find my way back through the bushes and fog and there José would be—shaking with laughter with his goofy and nearly toothless smile at me, slipping and stumbling up the lava rocks to meet him. His absolute joy and determination made the hours pass quickly that day. I soon found that our time at the lagoon was almost over and we had even worked straight through the group’s designated break.

Rarely have I ever felt as in synch with a person as I did with José that day at El Junco. It amazes me even more as I recall that neither one of us knew more than a few basic phrases in the other’s native language. Though this must seem like a glaringly obvious barrier, at the time it could not have felt more insignificant. Indeed, there was next to no verbal communication between the two of us—or, for that matter, between myself and so many of the locals I met on the Islands throughout those two, sublime weeks I spent there. Despite this, these relationships that were formed through such bizarre circumstances turned out to be infinitely more deep and powerful than I ever could have expected.

I had found my cause. And that life I’d always longed for? I’m living it.