I love my job. Some days, I venture into a school in the local foothill communities to teach classes in health in nutrition. Other days, I stay in the clinic to see the groups of kids who first pass with the doctor and then come to our classroom to get a lesson in nutrition and hygiene, a snack, a toothbrush and a bar of soap. I spent two weeks riding daily in the back of a pick-up truck to a community about 45 minutes away, at the base of the local volcano Santa Maria. Once a year, the people of this remote community (provided the roads are accessible) are able to receive care from us, and I was able to be a part of providing that care this year. I loaded as many medicines and toothbrushes in to my backpack as I could, and went to the communities with Guatemalan med students and other volunteers to provide this essential care that they would not otherwise receive. Regardless of the location, I listen to little voices tell me what’s wrong with them in Spanish on a daily basis.
About a week ago, I went to a school in Xecaracoj to talk to first graders about health, hygiene, and values. I had been to this school before to teach lessons in various other topics- natural disasters, puberty, sex ed, etc. In fact, one of the first lessons I taught was on sex ed, with my sassy Spaniard colleague Sandra. She witnessed me on my first day of teaching, informing young Guatemalans about erections and wet dreams, and still talks to me. That’s got to be a resume skill.
I’m usually able to pick out who the talkers and leaders are of the class pretty quickly. In this first grade class, it was a skinny little kid to my right named Kevin. Kevin was sharp; he knew the answers to all my questions and was eager to participate. It was a fun class, the kids were energetic, knew a lot of what I was talking about, and wanted to participate.
During the hour long recess (?) I went out to the playground and talked to Kevin and some of his friends. They played the standard game with English speakers: ¿Cómo se dice ____ en inglés? Once we ran out of words (literally they were asking me how to say like dirt in English), the recess that lasts an eternity was over. I had made a friend out of tiny little Kevin.
I returned the next day and taught about something I can’t remember right now. Anyways, when recess time came, Kevin had brought a game to play. It was that game called memory, where you have cards and the cards have matching pictures and you have to match the pictures from memory. We played several rounds, and I stunk at it. I hope you don’t have to memorize anything in medical school (just kidding). Whenever I would lose, Kevin would show me where the matching pairs were because he wanted me to win. It was the cutest thing, the seven year old looking out for the twenty two year old. At the end of recess, Kevin came up to me, and extended his hand with the box of cards in it. “It’s a gift for you!” I was so touched I didn’t know what to say. I told him that I was very grateful, but I didn’t want to take his game from him. He ran back inside. It was the end of recess.
A week later, I felt like I had let Kevin down by not accepting his present. So, I went back to the school with a Frisbee that a traveler friend had given to me. During recess, I taught Kevin and his group of friends how to throw the Frisbee. They loved it, and ran around the schoolyard chasing it like maniacs. At the end of recess, I told the kids that the Frisbee was for them to have, but they needed to take good care of it. I told them that Kevin was the Frisbee’s caretaker, and was in charge of making sure it didn’t get lost. Kevin’s face lit up, and he jumped up and down, so excited by his new responsibility. I think what excited him more, though, was the fact that I “chose” him to have this responsibility. He did the Guatemalan handshake that all the kids do 3 times with me before I left.
I love my job because the people I work with are sometimes so refreshingly straightforward. They don’t ask for a thing, but are so grateful for anything they get. Kevin showed me this, that such an intangible gift can create such visible happiness.
