Potential

Throughout my two years here in Peace Corps Costa Rica, there have been two students whose potential has caught my attention. Juan* is one of the elementary school dropouts in my “Aula Abierta” class. Jordy is the bright star of the “green” albergue for younger children. Both kids never cease to impress me with the quickness in which they process my lessons and themes. My observation of their intelligence leaves me feeling both hopeful and apprehensive. Both of these children are going to need a significant amount of support and guidance if they are to realize their potential.

The other kids in Aula Abierta call Juan “Gordo.” Juan embraces the nickname and sometimes even introduces himself as “Gordo” to new teachers and students. However, the dub is a misnomer. Juan may have a bit of a pot belly, but is hardly fat. He is a gifted soccer player, and carries himself with grace and poise. His face is round, but handsome. Juan is confident to the point of cockiness, but has his anxieties. The adoption of “Gordo” hints at such self-consciousness. While Juan participates in his fair share of horseplay in the classroom, he respects it. He listens intently to my lessons and the thoughts of his classmates. It is as if there are two Juans hidden under that thick skin: “Gordo:” the class clown, and Juan: the genius.

To say that Juan comes from a troubled family is an understatement. On my fourth day in my site, I went for a run along the ocean-hugging road known as “La Costanera.” Not long into my run, I was accosted by seven young men on bicycles. They stopped me, put a .22 to my chest, and took my money. Several months later, Juan told me an interesting story. As he was walking along the beach with his uncle at the Puntarenas carnivals, his uncle spotted me in the crowd with the albergue children in tow. He pointed me out to Juan and told him about the time he and his buddies held me up for the equivalent of four dollars. The uncle laughed, but Juan didn’t. His family had attacked a teacher for whom he had shown nothing but respect.

Juan’s grandmother sells drugs. His mother sells drugs. It is not such a shocker that in his mid-teens, Juan is selling. One may look at this child and consider him a goner. But he still comes to school. When I arrived in the Aula Abierta classroom in May of 2008, he was there. During the academic year of 2009, he was there. However, as the year wore on, he would start showing up less and less. During the last months of the semester, he was nowhere to be found. But each year, including this one, he turns up again. Sitting at his desk with a smile and an open notebook, he puts “Gordo” aside and reveals the real Juan.

Juan lights up the classroom. He shows great enthusiasm for the English language, and learns faster than anybody else. Every now and then, he annoys me by asking me to translate all words pertaining to the smoking of marijuana. But for the most part, Juan pays attention, participates, and helps me keep the other students in check. When we are working on a new concept in English, I observe the wheels turning in his head. I see that English comes easy to him. In a country like Costa Rica in which English equals a career, his potential is limitless.

I once heard Warren Buffet explain why he was a liberal. He told his audience that being born is like a lottery. One can get lucky and be born into a comfortable, supportive family, or be unlucky and be born to a disadvantaged family. He explained that he got to where he is today by winning that lottery. How easy it could have been for him to be born into poverty! It was therefore his responsibility to do what he could to help those who were not as fortunate as he.

His explanation struck a cord in me. Where would I be if I was born into a family where the cards were stacked against me? A family in the South Bronx? A township in South Africa? I surely would not have received the quality education that I was lucky enough to get. With this concept of the “birth lottery” in my head, I often wonder: what would happen if Juan was born into a family as educated and supportive as mine?

The thought of Juan in a clean home, doing homework with his father is too much for me. With his charisma and critical mind, I imagine how he would whoop ass in a college classroom. When I bring myself back to reality, I realize that in all likelihood, this will not happen. I do what I can to provide him with skills he can use to pull himself out of Jireth. He has the mind, he has the attitude. But the “crabs in a bucket” syndrome runs deep here. All I can do is maximize the time I have with him, hope for the best, and let him go.



Jordy is very different from Juan, but shares the same challenges. Those who don’t know Juan call him a “vaga” (bum), and are legitimately afraid of the drug dealer. However, Jordy comes off as a well-bred, wholesome kid. People say hello to him on the street because he and his little brother, Bairón, are outgoing and well-known in the community. Like Juan, Jordy is extremely intelligent. I see it when we study for tests together. The “ah-ha!” moment comes all too quickly for Jordy. Jordy is also incredibly perceptive. With his deadly combination of book and street smarts, his potential is overwhelming.

Juan’s family may be a band of unsavory characters, but at least he had one. Jordy and Bairón are wards of the state. The only thing that we know about his parents is that they were refugees from Nicaragua. Bairón has severe mental disabilities, which imply a lack of proper prenatal care. Despite the fact that their parents were incapable of caring for them, Jordy and Bairón are amazingly functional.

Jordy has beaten the odds and has been thriving in the albergue. This may be because the tias in the albergue do a good job of caring for the children. He is fed and clothed. The tias make sure that he goes to school every day and does his homework at night. It is not unusual to have a kid enter the albergue with egregious signs of abuse: lacerations, burns, bruises, dental and nutritional problems. However, after a few months in the albergue, these children usually fill out and appear healthy again.

However, an orphanage is not enough to provide Jordy with the life he needs. Jordy comes off as a normal kid, but much lies beneath the surface. He has a complex mind that has been evolving. Jordy is one of the few children at the albergue who I have known for my entire service. Over the past two years, I have watched him learn and grow. What I have recently observed worries me.

At the precarious age of twelve, Jordy is changing both mentally and physically. His muscles are becoming defined; his face is taking on a more mature expression. He is still excelling in school, but adopting a different attitude. He is talking back to the tias, bossing around his brother and the other smaller children in the albergue. I often find him disciplining Bairón, and have to explain to him that I am the adult and that discipline is my job. But this logic is not followed by Jordy who is, in fact, becoming an adult. When I first met Jordy, he was happy being a child. But new hormones are pumping through his veins; I can tell that his coming of age will be at odds with albergue living.

Adolescence is arguably the most fragile time of a person’s life. I remember how difficult it was for me to get through. Everything gets turned upside down. Suddenly those who got bad grades were the coolest. Hanging out with and being accepted by one’s peers becomes priority one. For me, it felt like I was walking on a tightrope: a future of trouble was one wrong step away.

In elementary school, I was a good kid. I got straight As in school, did what my parents asked. However, things got a bit shaky in the eighth grade. I got in trouble at school. My grades were no longer that string of pearly As. But my parents and brother were there to keep me moving along that tightrope. My family was then, and still is, my advocate. They spoke to me about the changes that I was going through, and helped me deal with the tremendous drama that was life as an adolescent. They were the safety net under that line. The problems we dealt with helped build me as a person, and made me the man I am today. I am pretty sure that I turned out okay.

The invaluable support that a family provides at such a turning point in one’s life is what Jordy is missing. Sure, a tia can get one through such childhood dilemmas as losing teeth or wetting the bed. But the complexity of adolescent issues requires a real family. Jordy knows this, and has become angry. What gets me is that compared to the mess that accompanies adolescence in most people, Jordy would be easy. He listens. He wants to do well, and makes good decisions. That anger and uncertainty in him could easily be mollified by a competent parent.

I do what I can to help Jordy in this transition. We take walks, and talk about the issues in his life. When he gets into a rage, I take him to the park to throw the Frisbee around. The repetition calms him, and eventually cheers him up. Once his nerves are cooled, he always opens up.

The role I play helps, but is not enough. It tears me apart. Sometimes I contemplate adopting the brothers. But that dream quickly evaporates as I consider the sea of debt I am going to be in over the coming years. And how, exactly, am I going to raise two Tico boys in New York, without any income while getting my JD? Bairón calls me Papa. A twinge of pain goes through my heart as I correct him. “Tio, Bairón,” I say. “Soy su Tio.”



My role in the lives of Juan and Jordy are exactly what my job description requires of a volunteer in the Children, Youth and Families program. I am happy to play such a part, but can’t help but wonder if my work will yield results. The two boys are walking the tightrope, and I don’t know how much my efforts will do to keep them steady. For them, the stakes are higher than they were for me; I had a safety net.

As I prepare to leave Costa Rica for good, I hold onto the hope that my involvement in the lives of my students will make a positive impact, no matter how small. I did not come here expecting to “save” my community or the children in it. Juan may continue selling drugs. He may become addicted to drugs. Jordy may fall in with the wrong crowd and damage his academic record. However, if something that I did helps either of them to choose a healthier path, then I have succeeded. The hard part about leaving is that I will never know. But something tells me that the real Juan and the bright Jordy will be all right. And it is that intuition that makes it possible for me to prepare to say goodbye and close my Peace Corps service in Costa Rica.


*The names of people mentioned in this post have been changed for their protection.