Sixth Former Sean Kenahan addressed the School community at Church Assembly on Thursday, January 19. Sean spoke about his experience working in a school last summer in Kingston, Jamaica.
The full transcript of Sean's talk follows.
I have kind of a crazy story to tell, a little different than the usual Church Assembly speech. My story is about the time I spent in Kingston, Jamaica, this past summer, and as strange as it may sound, my story combines street crime and kids playing with LEGO pieces.
But let me back up for a moment.
Two years ago, I met Douglas Orane, a successful Jamaican businessman, at the Jamaican Jazz Festival. I spoke with him about how I wanted to spend my rising senior year summer working outside of the United States. After much planning, we worked out a way for me to reach my goal. I would spend six weeks in Kingston with the Oranes and work at a nearby school, teaching underprivileged children.
When I first arrived in Jamaica I remember thinking, "Okay, just accept the fact that for these next six weeks, you're going to be a minority—the outcast." But I really had no idea how true that statement was. From the moment I stepped foot out of the Kingston airport I was the only fair complexion for miles. In fact, I didn't see another white person during my entire trip, and no matter where I went I was continually gawked at. Whenever I walked down the streets Jamaican eyes shot open, as if to say, "Yo mon, what this birgeon think he doin' here?" Needless to say, I was taking a crash course in being a complete outsider. To my surprise, however, being an alien somehow seemed to enhance my teaching at the school.
On the first day, the students at Stella Maris School stared at me like I was from another planet. They didn't know what an American was doing in their country, much less in their school, much less standing in front of their classroom. But their curiosity to find out who I was and what I had to say immediately made for a great classroom dynamic. I was buried in questions about my home, and the kids hardly believed they were in school when they discovered that they were going to be in Uncle Sean's class. (In Jamaica it's common to address your elders as "Auntie" or "Uncle.") In fact, they decided that being in my class was playtime—a fact that I used to my advantage. Now, these kids loved playing with LEGOS. Little did they know that while they put together their LEGO cars they were also putting together the mechanical concepts of the axle and the wheel, and when they built their LEGO houses they were learning about structural integrity. The kids also had fake camp money they could use in class to "buy" more LEGO pieces. We hoped that this would teach the kids how to add and subtract money, which they rarely see, much less use. Before teaching these amazing children I had always considered education a right, but not a privilege. After seeing poverty-stricken children actually cheer when they were called back into class after lunch, I changed my mind. Cheering for school! The children's faces yearned for instruction. I filled the role of elder, teacher, and friend. For the first time in my life, I saw that for these Jamaican students, education was their right and my privilege.
That wasn't my only wake-up call. I was also forced to confront the harsh reality that many of these children had to overcome.
Every day I would walk the same route to school. This involved a pleasant stroll down the quaint, well-developed street called Acadia, followed by a rapid change of scene. The upscale homes that included front gates and guard dogs quickly changed into the small rusted shacks that many Jamaicans call home. You see, once I left the protective confines of "uptown," as the locals called it, I would then turn onto Rosemary Street, which is the boundary of Kingston's tough "downtown" district. On one particular afternoon, as I walked down Rosemary, two men sitting on a corner across the street took notice of me. They immediately stood up and began to cross the road. As they neared, I told myself they just wanted to sell me something: possibly a newspaper, maybe some fruit, or even some sort of drug. But then they split up. One approached me from the front and the other from behind. Then I heard quick footsteps and the man grabbed me from behind. His partner in front, who was about the size of Mike Camara, tore my shirt as he rapidly searched my pockets for anything of value. Neither guy seemed to have a weapon—believe me, I was looking. Jamaican Mike plucked my BlackBerry out of my pants pocket and took off running as I shouted some things that I won't repeat here. The man behind me was still frisking me. I spun around and saw that this Jamaican had more of a Rhoads McGuire physique, so I proceeded to throw a right hook that Matteo would have been proud of. It landed, the man staggered, and then fled. I was left standing there on Rosemary Street, wondering what had just happened. I was immediately filled with anger, anger because I had journeyed to this country in order to aid Jamaica's next generation. Was this how the country thanked me for my hard work? My anger continued into the next day, but it then began to grow into something much more profound.
I tell this story not to celebrate violence or even to encourage self-defense. I tell it for a reason that took me a while to realize: Appreciation. After the mugging a friend told me that almost all the crime and violence in Kingston arises from necessity. People steal in order to pay the rent, to clothe themselves or, all too often, just to feed their children. Getting mugged made me a little more wary, but a lot more appreciative. It's easy to lose sight of all the luxuries that come with being an American, especially an American at Portsmouth Abbey instead of Stella Maris School in Kingston. Here we always have a roof over our heads, we never worry where our next meal will come from, and we enjoy an amazing education. Food, clothing, education: just the basics to us, but luxuries for most of the world. Seeing children overjoyed because they got to go to school, and witnessing, up close and personal, what some people have to do to survive changed the way I feel when the alarm goes off every morning.
I urge you all to take a moment every morning when your alarm wakes you to realize how lucky you are and to appreciate every moment you spend in this great community, surrounded by so many who only wish to see you grow into the person you want to be.
Thank you.
