Going home Saying farewell to ‘my kids’ in the Dominican Republic
Colegio un Lugar de Esperanza students are shown on Independence Day. The school frequently takes part in activities for special days such as Independence Day and Earth Day.
Some of the students former Observer-Reporter intern Kaitlyn Speer teaches in the Dominican Republic are shown during play time. They love to build airplanes and trains.
The name of the school, “Un Lugar de Esperanza,” means a place of hope.
Andrea, one of the children at the school supported by Kaitlyn Speer’s family, is shown playing with blocks.
Kaitlyn Speer is a former Observer-Reporter intern who recently graduated from Patrick Henry College in Purcellville, Va., and volunteered for several months in the Dominican Republic. This is the last in a series of dispatches from overseas.
A few days ago, I walked into Colegio un Lugar de Esperanza for the last time. The colegio, also called a school in the Dominican Republic, was my home for the last two and a half months.
The teachers were my friends, and the kids felt like my kids.
As I sang “Head, shoulders, knees and toes,” with them for the last time, tears pricked my eyes. This would be the last time I would sing with them, and this may be the last time I would give them a hug. These kids, all 40 of them, taught me so much.
In the United States, I tend to take things for granted – having access to hot water, being able to flush the toilet, or having electricity. I tend to take my loving family for granted, and my good friends.
The Spanish name for the colegio means a place of hope, and for many of those kids, it is just that. Many of the kids come from broken families, have never known one of their parents, or come from abusive homes. But these kids, who have gone through so much at such a young age, never fail to greet me with a smile or hug.
When I walk in a room, they start yelling, “Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn!” They’re excited to see me. It didn’t matter what I felt like going into that room, because the moment I saw their faces, I felt joy. I felt a happiness that surpassed everything else. These kids brightened my day. They taught me how to speak Spanish, and they taught me how to sing songs with careless abandon. They taught me how to let loose and play tag, and they taught me how to build an epic airplane out of blocks.
When I left the school for the last time, I didn’t cry until I said goodbye to the kids. And while I know they are resilient, and will recover from my departure, I know my heart will be forever enlarged because of them. Even more importantly, they taught me how to love.
Those kids loved me with pure innocence and joy. They didn’t care about my past, my mistakes or my checkbook. They just wanted to spend time together, and to admire their plane creations. They loved easily, and they forgave easily. That is a lesson a lot of people should learn, including me.
As I’m writing this dispatch, I’m staring at a picture of some of the kids I have hanging on my refrigerator. Two siblings, Andrea and Albert, are supported financially by my family. We are able to help send them to school, and I was finally able to meet them on my trip. Andrea and Albert come from a difficult home life, and the two siblings no longer live with one another. Andrea is 3 and Albert is no older than 10. The two kids, though going through a difficult time, still managed to show me what it means to love one another. When Albert sees his sister, his face lights up, and Andrea fawns over him like any younger sister does with her heroic older brother.
When I see their photos on my refrigerator, I think about those children and pray. I remember the lessons they taught me. I remember to be grateful, and to love other people and to forgive easily.
I went to the Dominican Republic intent on making a difference and helping to change other people’s lives. But, as many people find when they go on mission trips, they look back and see they were actually the ones who were changed.
Will I miss my life in the Dominican? Absolutely. But, now I have more incentive to go back. My heart includes the people there, and I know no matter where I go or whenever I return, there will always be a second family waiting to welcome me with open arms.
Baitoa is a place of hope, for the people who live there, and for me.