I asked them in barely comprehendible Spanish if we would see them at school the following Monday. That weekend, some older boys who had laughed at us the first day watched us paint the outside of the preschool. That moment, all my doubts about this trip vanished. Not a single person exceeded my height in the community due to malnourishment, yet they still wanted to share whatever they possessed. The government provided concentrated packets to schools in order that the children obtain the nutrients they lacked from their meager diets. I originally thought the bucket had dirty water in it until Anna, one of our translators, informed us Maria was offering her class’s fortified corn drink. Inside sloshed a yellowish, grainy liquid. A 12-year-old girl, Maria, shuffled her four-foot figure with a paint bucket towards me. However, nuances reminded me of their struggle everyday, whether they were the holes in Marvin’s only shirt, or a preschool girl clinging on to my neck when her drunken father walked by. The children had so much energy: blowing bubbles, swinging on the jungle gym, tittering on the seesaw, head butting soccer balls, and chasing each other around the small playground. One little boy, Marvin, painted a hopscotch game with us, layering strokes of bright paint over the concrete, all weekend. With incredible generosity, the children helped us with vocabulary, invited us to play games, and helped us work on their new school. That being said, the preschoolers’ Spanish exceeded even experienced high school Spanish students. In Ximbaxuc, they speak a Mayan dialect called Quiche and learn Spanish in school. Slowly, the language barrier faded and I comfortably joined their games. I would not have survived half an hour without the preschoolers’ patience and guidance. Therefore, the first couple days of playing with the children during recess were rough. We laughed too.Īnother confession: before this summer, I spoke zero Spanish. Both groups shyly observed each other for a moment. Tiny children came running (running!) down the slope to catch a glimpse of us. The school sat at the top of a pine-covered hill. Our van bumbled along through cobblestone streets that turned to dirt as we drove farther into the highlands. What if the kids didn’t like us? What if the community viewed our trip as condescending and pointless? What if they’re right? My leg nervously bounced up and down the whole ride. Unfortunately, that meant I had time to second-guess myself during the drive to our Mayan community, Ximbaxuc. Fortunately, that meant everybody in the program’s van became close with one another. It took forever to get anywhere in Guatemala. Nonetheless, I recognized it as a great opportunity for learning and service, so I dove head first into this adventure, raising over $3,000 including a grant from Hingham Congregational Church to donate towards building a school. That was all I knew about the trip at the time. The program that organized it, School the World, has been building elementary and preschool facilities in rural communities there for years, and other teenagers from Hingham High School have previously joined them. Then, about a year ago, I signed up for a service trip to Guatemala. Before this summer, I didn’t find younger kids very likable.
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