An Essay

So, I wrote an essay about my experience last summer with Amigos for my English class as practice for College Apps in the fall (scary thought!), and it turned out better than expected so I thought I would share it with you all. Here goes nothing...

It is a warm, humid morning. Strangely, the sky is devoid of the large Cumulus mediocris clouds that have plagued the small valley for the last week. The sun is just rising over the green mountains, casting a warm glow on the small cement buildings around the town center. The sun reflects off the tin roofs of the houses where families are beginning to stir. A few early-risers stroll past the small park to catch the earliest bus into the closest city. A slight breeze causes the metal swings to creak and the leaves in the trees to ruffle. The smell of fried plantains and chickens waft across the blue sky, past the gleaming white walls of the Catholic church building, past the Pepto-Bismol pink walls of the mayor’s office, and into the nose of anyone lucky enough to cross its path. The temperature of the metal bench I sit on begins to rise as it reflects the sun’s rays onto my bare arms. One thought resounds in my mind, that someday I will miss this…

Spanish was never my favorite class during Junior High, and even the first few years of High School. I wanted to take French. I thought French was more romantic and sophisticated, and Spanish was pointless. Sitting in Spanish class every other day, conjugating verbs and dissecting sentences, seemed like a constant reminder of my initial disappointment at finding “Spanish Level 2” on my class schedule on the first day of seventh grade. Walking into the dreaded room 330 on that one day in the fall of 7th grade, I never suspected that what awaited me would change my life forever. A young visitor in a blue polo gave a presentation, first in Spanish and then again in English, so we could actually understand it, and slowly as I listened I became inspired. I rushed home that day to tell my mother about Amigos de las Americas, an amazing program that I knew I had to join. There were only two problems, I had to speak and understand Spanish well, and I had to wait until age 16 to volunteer. That was the day my dreams of French class died.

Sitting on a colorful school bus with 60 other American students, as it speeds through the rain down a long and windy road, I realize I have no clue what I am doing. Rain splatters through the broken bus windows, as my peers laugh, and I am completely overwhelmed. It is my first time leaving the country, my first time on an airplane, and my first time being away from my parents for any extended amount of time. I am on Nicaraguan soil, speeding towards the city of Somoto, and I am having second thoughts at the worst possible time. I am frightened by the strange newness of the country around me, but I realize this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and if I give it up, I know I will regret it forever. I decide to stay, and looking back I realize that it is one of the best decisions I ever made.

Arriving in the small neighborhood of German Pomares in a tiny town with my partner Emma, I realize I still have one problem: I cannot speak Spanish. After being guided to my host family’s home by Emma’s host sister, I introduce myself awkwardly and with a very distinct ‘gringa’ accent to my host mother. As my luck would have it, she teaches Spanish at the High School next door to her lovely lavender home. She promptly disappears and leaves me with her two young grandchildren who coincidentally are also learning Spanish. They are 2 and 4 years old, and speak Spanish with more fluency than my Junior High Spanish teacher. At this point, I realize I have a lot of learning to do.

I start by speaking to anyone who will stand still long enough to listen to me. I jumble my words and fumble my conjugations, but through an intense mixture of Spanglish, body language, and hand gestures, I somehow slowly became friends with many of my new neighbors. Emma and I eat dinner every night with a lovely old lady named Rosibel, who teaches me not only most of my Spanish, but also to make traditional Nicaraguan food, and shows me more love than I ever expected I would receive. With her help, and slowly improving Spanish skills, we organize youth meetings and a community project to plant over 90 trees in homes throughout the neighborhood. Once I develop the ability to speak Spanish, it is surprisingly easy to fall in love with the community, the people, and the beautiful culture of the small barrio of German Pomares. The children of the community become my best friends. They accept me, and my poor Spanish, timidly at first, but then with their whole hearts. I have no choice but to love them in return. Living for six weeks in this community is not easy. I am sick often, confused almost constantly, and my legs just about fall off from hiking from one house to the next to plant the small saplings. Just as the saplings, and my Spanish grew over time, so did my joy in the experience.

 My last day in community I awake rested and relaxed. As I walk home from breakfast with Emma’s host family, I stop in the center of town. Sitting cross-legged on a metallic bench watching the world turn, I realize it is okay to be happy even though Emma is distraught. She hates the thought of leaving. In her mind it means returning to a more complex life and leaving German Pomares behind. Sitting here, I realize that though I return to America, I will never leave German Pomares behind. It will stay with me through my love of plantains and avocados, my love of purple houses, and most of all my new found love of all things Spanish. French may be the most romantic language, but in this moment, I realize that to me Spanish is the true language of love because I love German Pomares and it loves me too.

So yeah. I hope you enjoyed that. Feel free to read it again if you want. If you really like it, you could contact my teacher and convince her to give me a good grade. That would be awesome. 

Goodnight world!

P.S. Going to Costa Rica soon! I'm super excited!