About the Author

Jorge’s Gift

By Aaron Mearns
This article was printed in Abroad View Fall 2005

As the plane made its final descent into Boston’s Logan Airport, the lights from the city seemed different. They hadn’t changed in the month I had been in Mexico; rather, living and working in another country had changed me. Flying above, the city seemed more of a blessing than a given. Landing instructions shook us from our thoughts, and then a special announcement, welcoming home the 11 students and two professors coming back from a month-long community service project in Mexico.

Home. The reflection from the window betrayed my tears as I thought about the homes we had all been briefly but wholeheartedly welcomed into. We were quiet with our thoughts, reflecting on what we were leaving behind, and what we were coming back to.

Of course, when I was first accepted for the trip, I didn’t know how life-changing it would be. The truth is, I wasn’t even excited to go. I had never flown before, and my Spanish was sub par. I worried that while living with the host family, I wouldn’t be able to communicate with them, not to mention not being able to see or talk to my family.

But by my sophomore year at Endicott College, I was ready to push my limits. In high school, college is often billed as a time for independence and self-discovery. But for the two years I had been at school, it had seemed like great measures were taken to make our stay comfortable. I wanted a chance to really get out on my own, to test myself and see what obstacles I was capable of overcoming. Mexico seemed like the perfect chance.

I was also beginning to look more at the world around me. Though I hadn’t been raised in a wealthy family, I was privileged to be at a beautiful school, and the thought that so many people had so much less gnawed at me. I wanted to help others, and the trip was designed to do just that. Prior to leaving, we held fundraisers. We collected cans and took donations. We sold candy grams and homemade reindeer candy canes to students and faculty. The whole campus seemed behind us, as if we were raising not only money, but also awareness about the poverty in Mexico.

From the first plane ride, I knew my life would be different. As we rose above the city, I watched the details of the place I called home blend into the rest of the world, blurring the distinction between “us” and everyone else. Five hours later, the lights of Mexico City looked just like Boston, and I wondered at the similarity between areas so distant. Yet as we descended, and spent the next few weeks living and working in several communities, the rich details of a culture very different from ours came into focus.

We spent our first few days in Mexico City, acclimating to the culture through field trips with our professors. We climbed pyramids and looked across earth-toned hills supporting closely stacked homes dotted with cacti. We walked through ruins of an ancient civilization, emerging in the heart of the city built on top of them. The field trips brought to life what we had studied in the semester before coming to Mexico.

After Mexico City, we went to live with host families in Puebla. The families belonged to the upper middle class and went out of their way to make sure we were comfortable. On my first night with my host family, my host mother urged me to call my mom. Despite the cultural differences, she knew that my mom would be worried. I hadn’t realized until I called how much I missed my parents. I could hardly talk around the lump in my throat, but hearing their voices was reassuring.

Yet while missing my own family, I was quickly feeling like a part of my new one. My host brother took me to the mall and the discoteca to meet his friends. We listened to Eric Clapton and Mexican folk singers in his garage, both of us singing while playing guitar and drums. My sister, Kata, introduced me to her friends and taught me how to play poker. My mother, also Kata, showed me the rich variety of Mexican food and invited me to watch movies with them. My father, Abelardo, drove me every morning to meet the other students and, though language barriers made talking difficult, we spent a long evening looking at the pictures I had brought from home.

During the day, all 13 of us piled into a couple of vans and drove to the outskirts of Puebla. There, we worked in preschools, using the money we had raised back home to paint the schools in bright colors, build fences to separate the schoolyard from the road, and install bathrooms. Though the schools had little in material things, including running water and electricity, the students were loving and spirited. They worked right beside us.

When we weren’t working, we played with the kids and learned about their community. We had a goal of things we wanted to accomplish over the week, but we often let the kids decide what to do. Each student helped with the painting; after all, it was their school, and they were proud to take part in making it beautiful. We decorated the inside by dipping our hands in paint and pressing them against the wall.

After a few days in the schools, other members of the community came out to help. We had plans to build a bamboo fence around the schoolyard. Unfortunately, none of us knew how to do it. Side by side, we worked with fathers and mothers, who showed us how to dig the hole and set the bamboo. Long after we had put down our shovels in exhaustion, the locals kept digging.

Working all day in the school and then going back to our host families gave us daily culture shock. Though the distance between the communities was less than 10 miles apart, the economic differences were worlds apart. With the host families, we lived in relative luxury. Most days it was hard leaving the schools, knowing that while we went back to a life of comfort, the students were staying behind in a world of poverty. At times, I wondered how much good our work was doing, because it wasn’t ultimately changing their lives. Yet by the time we left the schools, one student in particular showed me the value of our efforts.

At five years old, Jorge flipped my world on its head, shattering my notions of rich and poor while showing me what the truly important things in life are. We bonded pretty quickly while painting, playing, and snapping goofy photos of each other. On the final day, we said goodbye to the kids and their families. Jorge’s grandmother came up to each of us and, with a hand on her heart, said, “Siempre en mi corazón.” Forever in my heart.

After everyone left, Jorge came rushing back into the school. Tugging on my hand for me to kneel down, he took off his straw cowboy hat and placed it on my head. At first I protested, not wanting to take such an expensive gift. Despite everything we had learned, I still had a hard time not seeing gifts in terms of dollars. My professor Sergio explained to me that the best thing to do was to take the hat. It was important to Jorge that I remember him. I had never seen such generosity, and my mind tried to grapple with how someone with so little could give so much. As Jorge reached his hand out to put the hat on my head, he reached across language, class, and cultural differences. He showed me how to judge a man not by the size of his wallet, but by the generosity in his heart. My already poor Spanish was lost through my sobbing as I struggled for words.

I promised myself as I left that I would write Jorge letters and send gifts once I got back to the U.S. Unfortunately, everyday life resumes too quickly, and I have yet to send a letter. Not a day goes by, though, that I don’t think of Jorge and his friends at the school. The hat now hangs on my desk, next to the picture of Jorge standing proud in front of the school that he helped paint, straw cowboy hat pulled snug over his little head. A few days after we left the school, we returned to show the president of our college the work we had done. While we were there, I dropped off some pictures of me and Jorge that I had developed. On the back, I wrote, “Siempre en mi corazón.”