Blog A: A Lesson Learned

People have always told me that I’m good with children, and that I’ve always cared for those younger than me. From the age of three, I would look after my baby brother. I even helped give him his first bath. In daycare, I looked after the littler ones, I was the voice of concern and reason when the parents weren’t around. I also just realized that I’m making myself out to be some saint-like wonderchild. This is obviously very far from the truth. While I was the voice of reason in a world of rugrats, the reason extended only as far as “Let’s not dig to China in Mommy’s flowers, let’s dig in the front yard.” Yet I seemed to keep us one step removed from punishment. The consequences rarely exceeded listening to “At least you didn’t dig in the flowers…”

For a while, I never really thought much about what I was doing. It just seemed like the right thing to do, that I should be looking after the littler ones. From age five to age sixteen I stayed in that frame of mind, looking after little kids, whether they be my cousins, friend’s siblings, or campers at the sleep away camp where I worked and still work. In that time period however, it became less about looking after children, and more about making sure I was noticed looking after children. It became self-gratification. The lesson I had to learn was that it was about children, and not about me. That lesson was learned in Mexico.

In the 10th grade, I travelled with a group run by teachers from my school to Juarez, Mexico to build houses for 5 days. For everyone involved, it was a heavy ordeal, rife with realization and life affirming experiences. I think the best way to convey the lesson I learned is through a passage I wrote about a week after, when I was back home. The following is word for word what I wrote a little under 3 years ago.

“Today my History teacher asked me if I could die unashamed because of what I did in Mexico. I said sort of. That was a lie. What they don’t know is that there is a little boy living in Mexico right now on the edge of civilization who doesn’t even know his own birthday. His name is Kevin, and he deserves so much more. We weren’t building him a house, but his neighbors. He could have been like the other neighborhood kids and just asked for candy and money. He wasn’t, and he didn’t. He helped us. He did anything we asked of him, and without complaint. He only spoke a little English, which was more than the rest of his family, and yet he communicated anyhow. For a while he only talked to Amy, but then he started to follow me around. He would try to tell me things, for instance, he told me his full name. I wish I was paying closer attention, because I can’t remember it now. It hurts me that I can’t remember. It feels like I failed him somehow. He also told me that he spoke better English than his mother. I can remember that exactly. It went like this:

Kevin: My mother is a little English.
Me: She is?
Kevin: My mother is a little English, but I am more English.
Me: Oh ok, I understand. Good job Kevin!

I meant it. I tried to teach him some other English while I was there. I taught him “drill”, “nail”, “screw”, “gloves”, “mask”, and “hammer”. I know he can write, at least his name. He signed it along with us on the inside of the drywall. At the end of Day 3 he asked if I was coming back the next day. Being the idiot that I am, I said yes, because I thought we would stop by to collect the tools. But we didn’t. We did come back later that night though. Me and Jill made him a card, and Rich got all the kids balls to play with. As the night progressed, after the last group prayer, I knelt down and this happened:

Me: Kevin, amigos?
Kevin: Si, amigos!

That made me feel so good. I was pretty thankful to everyone else for letting me have that moment also. Later on, I guess as a show of our friendship, me and Kevin had a dirt clod fight. He hit me pretty hard in the head a few times. A great shot for a 7 year old in the dark. I need to talk to Mrs. Winchell about doing something for him, because he made me realize what it was I was really doing: helping people and changing their lives. That little boy deserves so much and yet he has so little. He is pure of heart and soul, he has what it takes to get out of Juarez.

Why do I, so undeserving of what I have, get to live the better life? How come Kevin has to suffer while I live in luxury? Why couldn’t it have been the reverse? Kevin could have become a little punk, asking us for money or candy and calling us gringos or gringas, but he, of such a pure heart, rose above that, and became my friend. I don’t know how or what I’ll do, but I need to help that little boy succeed in life, and become a great man, although he needs no help with it. If I need to, I will move down there with him. I love him that much.”

The saddest part of the story is that I was never able to reach any means of doing this. I have no idea where Kevin is at this point, and I know it may be naïve to think so, but I like to hold onto the idea that he never changed. I choose to think that he remained as selfless and pure as I remember him.

The lesson I learned was that I don’t need people to see that I am doing a good job. What I need is to see the children under my care succeed and become the people they are capable of becoming. Kevin showed me the meaning of purity of heart and soul, of true kindness and friendship. If I can teach anyone else of this, if I can spread this meaning to the children I teach…I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that the world needs more Kevins.