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.

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 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.