They Opened My Eyes

They were beautiful. Not dressed to the hilt. In fact they probably owned just two or three outfits each. They were not well groomed; ponytails for the ladies, barely combed, were the men. Not regular bathers, water was not to be wasted. But hygiene was not their priority. Regardless, they were lovely. Dark chocolate skin, from a lifetime of work under the blistering sun, eyes the color of shiny coffee beans, and hair that was as black as the pottery from a nearby village.

Their hearts were enormous. They waved hello and welcomed us into their homes before they knew our names. We were strangers, in their land. They lit the fire and rolled the masa. They flattened and cooked fresh corn tortillas for all of us, although there was hardly enough food to feed their own family. They told us to come back for more- anytime. The offer was honest and heartfelt. So generous with beautiful hearts.

They lived minimally. There were no mansions. Tiny one room dwellings, some under metal roofs suspended by four wooden posts. There was no carpet, no hardwood flooring, just dirt. There were no walls, no plumbing, no privacy in their homes. They did not mind. They did not play “keep up with the Jones’.” They were grateful for what they had.

They did not gripe. They walked down the dusty mountainside and back up again, several times a day. They walked everywhere, sometimes barefooted. There were no cars, no bicycles, they caught the crowded bus, only for long trips. They never complained.

We were young. We were overwhelmed with emotions by the experience, by the love, by the poverty. It was rare to feel accepted, to be part of a loving community, to live by neighborly people in our own country. These people did not treat us as foreigners, just friends.

The fifteen of us stayed in a sturdy, concrete house, much nicer than theirs. I felt guilty. I wanted to give them my top bunk. I could sleep on the hard floor for a few nights. I wanted them to know “luxury.” We spent evenings on the rooftop overlooking the valley with a soccer field and Pepsi factory. We wrote for hours in our journals, some in English, some in Spanish, some with drawings. We shared stories from our daily experiences. We sang to the rhythms of a guitar. We bonded, we laughed, we cried, we grew.

Some were in culture shock, some grew homesick. I…I did not want to return home. I was disgusted. Frustrated by “our” society. I was angry and mad. I could not bare the idea of returning to the greed, the need for bigger and better. The society that always wants more, more, more.

Couldn’t I just stay there, there with people who were optimistic, who didn’t know greed, who appreciated the simple things in life…conversation with a neighbor, sharing stories, helping each other with daily tasks?

I wanted to visit with the elders again, they had no families, no loved ones who would come for them. I wanted to hear more stories. I wanted to spend more time with the special needs children and their families. They didn’t know where to turn for help. I wanted to walk, again, to the neighboring mountain. I wanted to return to the village and give the children more shoes and books. I wanted them to have a real school, not one with sheet metal on four posts. I wanted to take them by their tiny hands and spin them ‘round and ‘round, play more games with them, teach them more songs in English.

They were grateful. They felt indebted to us, for our time. They did not know…they had no clue that they did more for me than they could ever know. They opened my eyes, they taught me to look around AND look inside myself. They taught me that time was a great gift to give.

I feel so rich to have had them in my life. It was brief, but it was life-altering. I am truly thankful for all of the people in the region who gave me smiles and kind words. Who taught me about surviving, when they didn’t even know they were fighting. It is all they knew.

They were they happiest people I had ever met…they did not know what they were missing out on…in actuality, none of it would have made them much happier.

(Memories of an amazing service-learning trip to Oaxaca, Mexico, while I was in college)