La Esperanza | Emily

The Christian Reformed school in La Esperanza was introduced to us by Rachael as “the crazy school”, but she quickly reassured us by informing the group that we would be teaching in pairs because other wise “we might die” while teaching. Comforting? No. Accurate? Yes. Quoting Rachael, she was accurate in saying that the kids truly are “on fire”. I was terrified knowing that on the first day of rotations I would be stepping up in front of 15 kids who don’t speak the same language as me, and even more terrified that my authority would falter if I lacked confidence, and I would ultimately lose all control. When only one fistfight broke out among a classroom of 11 year olds over Chicos and Chicas, I was surprisingly relieved. But I must admit that my first day of teaching was a good experience, though I can’t say truthfully it was my favorite afternoon thus far. I was stressed, tired, and fighting to push through the day with a pounding headache. All of this set the tone for one of the most exhausting days I’ve ever experienced. 

The next morning after sleeping blissfully, and truthfully only being half awake at the breakfast table, Rachael announced the rotation groups by saying that Jea, Megan, and I were the only people going back to the same schools we attended yesterday. Not only was I taken aback, but I also became filled with rage that I had to experience the same thing over again twice in a row. I stewed over this all while I watched the others become excited by the prospects of paint fights, and cuddling with Compassion children. I was furious, and truthfully even scared to go back since yesterday had felt like nothing I did was right or meaningful for the kids. I wasn’t as engaged in the teaching as I should’ve been, they didn’t seem excited or even interested in the fact that we were there, and I’d even caught some of them making fun of Sierra and I as we tried our hardest to teach to the best of our abilities. I was crushed when I listened to stories from Megan, Jordan, Dylan, and Rebecca on the taxi ride home at 3:00pm because I felt as though I should’ve been as excited and liked by the children as they were. I’ve never been overly patient or embracing of interactions with kids, but I felt like I was doing things all wrong because everybody could get along with them perfectly fine, fantastically even. I feel like the word I’m looking for to describe my feelings about Esperanza day one was discouraging. I tried to hide my feelings, and keep from projecting my negative vibes onto the others, but I wear my heart on my sleeve, it’s part of my brutally honesty personally, and I highly doubt it went unnoticed at all. I climbed begrudgingly into the taxi, and had my mindset in place to expect the worst. Little did I know that not only it would become one of the best days of my life, but also an experience that would change it forever.

We arrived to a chorus of Dominicans of all ages shouting “Erica!” from inside the school gates, which is a normal occurrence when being escorted by our lovely chaperone. Regretfully I felt jealous of the love the kids were already showing her. Keeping it together, Sam and I were directed to one of the classrooms with the older kids. Within 10 minutes of starting, we were led to another class filled with students that I’d taught the previous day. I was less then thrilled with this realization since I was already familiar with their sassy attitudes, and tendency to whisper and point at us, then snicker in, of course, a language I couldn’t even understand. So we taught. Eventually after we’d exhausted numbers and the alphabet, we moved on to playing Chicos and Chicas, which is the whole groups default tactic once the ideas for lessons run out. Nothing about this was special, other than I noticed a boy sitting in the back left desk of the class with his head on the desk, and his jean jacket draped over it. I continued without much thought, other than a slight feeling of self-doubt as I wondered why he was so uninterested. Thankfully recess for the class rolled around just as the kids began losing control, and conflict was beginning to erupt over the game. Erica, Sophia, and Scott joined us in the class, and the kids stuck around to talk with us, which was surprising since they’d seemed so antisocial with us the day before. I began trying to interact, when I noticed the little boy with the jean jacket staring at me solemnly. I walked over and uttered a quick “Hola”, unsure if he’d even respond. To my delight he quickly replied and started speaking in Spanish, which consisted of him asking me questions, and me trying to understand at least one word so I could mime out some sort of stretched attempt at a response. He pointed and told me he liked my “azul” eyes, to which I replied by pointing at his jacket and uttering “me gusto”. I noticed how it had no stains or tears, and despite the 30-degree weather he still wore it proudly. 

The kids started to disassemble and emerge into the “playground”, which was a dirt yard with a single somber looking old slide. I motioned for the boy to come with me, which he happily did. With a few other children and Sam, we made our rounds to the other classrooms around the schoolyard since some were not yet on their recess. I asked them about their “hermanos”, and they excitedly pointed out the classrooms their siblings were learning in right that minute. Since the topic of family arose the boy in the jean jacket muttered something I couldn’t fully understand, except for a single word, which was “padre”. I replied by saying “Si, padre Canada.”, which roughly translates into “Yes, father Canada.” He looked at me and nodded, until I asked him about his “padre”. He pointed to the sky, and simply said “muerto”, which means dead. I didn’t respond simply because I didn’t feel I could say anything truly meaningful enough in Spanish. Internally I was shocked, and upset that this beautiful boy and all his siblings had to lose a father. I didn’t ask why or how, just because the language barrier was too great. 

Something about this interaction felt like fate. It felt like divine intervention in my life, because I have two father figures in my life that I’ve not always appreciated. My step dad and I for the first 3 years of our relationship were never on good terms. I was angry with a lot of things and circumstances at the time, and I couldn’t find it in my heart to accept him no matter how good his intentions were. Recently my father and I have not been seeing each other often, if at all, for long periods at a time because of conflict and our difficult relationship. I take the fact that I have so many people that care about me for granted, especially both of my “fathers”. Thinking to myself later that night about how he lost his father, but still was just so simply happy, and I had two and couldn’t achieve the same almost tore me to pieces. Outwardly I felt collected and together, but immediately during circle time as soon as I started to review my day’s roses and thorns I could barely speak. My eyes welled with tears, and I hid my face behind my folded up knees, and sobbed before finding any strength at all to recount what me and the boy shared that day. I choked back my tears with every word, but holding back all my emotions from that day came out like I’ve never expressed emotion before.  My heart ached for that boy; my heart tore for the Dominican Republic. What could I do to change anything, how could I fix the pain of these people who I already felt so powerfully for, and why couldn’t I live my life like they do every minute of everyday. It’s something I don’t know, and it will take nothing but time and thought to figure out. All I know is that I never have felt so genuinely happy then I did at Esperanza working and playing with those kids, and of course spending time with my boy in the jean jacket.  A single word and motion from that boy changed me, and his courage to talk to me no matter how intimidating and frustrated I may have seemed touched me unexplainably. The love intertwined in their culture is like nothing you could imagine until you experience it first hand. Until you receive love from a child even though you’re white, rich, and have the world sitting at your feet when they’re struggling just to cling onto theirs is too beautiful to put words to. You come hoping to change their world, and they end up changing yours with nothing but their love, for life, and for you.