My first semester at Harvard was a whirlwind of red-brick buildings, late nights and early mornings at Lamont, and first impressions of my classmates, explored all while navigating through new extracurriculars and peculiar social scenes. My fall experience was confined to the so-called “Harvard Bubble,” so J-Term in Nicaragua and Honduras provided the much-needed break from my hectic and overly-complicated college life to recharge and reassess who I am and where I am going.
I started winter break in Nicaragua for two weeks of volunteer work with other college students through Friends of Students for 60,000, an organization that oversees continuing community development projects in small villages in the country. We helped launch the “Tengo Un Sueño” program, providing classroom and community support to a class of first graders. It was an amazing experience because of the enduring relationships we established with the local community, teachers, and community liaisons.
The trip was a “volunteer-cation” because, when we weren’t working, we explored the beauty of Nicaragua—surfing down the volcano Cerro Negro, swimming in a freshwater lagoon, playing games like “never have I ever” on cots under the stars, and dancing (or attempting to dance) to reggaeton. Through these shared experiences, I bonded quickly with the other volunteers; maybe because of our common interests, or perhaps our shared lack of cell phones, Facebook, and adequate deodorant, we formed relationships that will undoubtedly carry on even after our return to “reality” back in the States.
After an almost-missed, last-one-to-board-the-plane flight from Nicaragua to Miami to Honduras, my roommate and I were off to visit the orphanage I taught at last summer in the city of La Ceiba. Seeing the same 22 faces that I lived with this past June reminded me that, in spite of all that has happened since the summer, nothing had changed in my relationship with these kids. The important things—the songs we danced to (“Te Amo” by Makano), the English expressions I taught them (OMG or “¡Aye Dios mio!” en español), and the books we read together—were remembered and cherished by all.
Afterwards, my roommate and I went to Utila, an island off the coast of Honduras, to get our open-water dive certification. The island of Utila, known for its diving and nightlife, is frequented by dive junkies and backpackers from all over the world. At the dive hostel, we roomed with a cranberry farmer from Oregon, belted out Taylor Swift with a soldier who had just returned from Afghanistan, and strummed a guitar with a paratrooper in the Israeli army. It reminded me of my meals in Annenberg during the first few weeks of school, meeting my classmates and listening to the unique and amazing stories of what they have done and how they ended up at Harvard.
After four days of instruction and diving, my roommate and I were dubbed licensed open-water scuba divers. We explored the coral reefs of Utila, searching for the elusive local whale sharks. To our dismay, no whale sharks were found, and sea turtles and barracudas had to suffice.
Returning to Harvard after a month of living “la vida sencilla”—the simple life—in Latin America was weird, but in a good way. New friends, new experiences, and a new tan (now peeling) had entered my life, and it was refreshing to come back to school with an enriched perspective. This semester, I want to carry on “la vida sencilla,” really getting to know people, taking time to appreciate where I am and whom I am with, and focusing on the things that matter while letting everything else fall into place. Ah, home sweet Harvard.
