–by Zhenzhou Hu

Back when senior Hugh was applying to colleges, he wrote this essay about a community-service project served with his host family, the Wessmans. Hugh used this essay as part of his college application. It worked. Hugh will be attending the University of San Diego next fall. He shares now his essay with The Bird on Fire.

 

“I guess I’m not going to see a beautiful Christmas tree tonight,” I whined on Christmas Eve as I wandered across the highway 20 miles north of the Mexican border. I had been looking forward to my first Christmas ever since I arrived in America. With child-like wonder, I envisioned a tinsel-topped tree, a traditional turkey dinner, and maybe even a visit from Santa Claus. It was not to be! My host family announced they were going to give away Christmas this year. They wanted to make Christmas about what they could do instead of what they could receive. To me, it didn’t sound like giving it away; it sounded like giving it up.

The plan was to build a house in a week for a needy Mexican family. And now, before we even arrived, we had car trouble. The tension pulley on the fan belt froze. Stranded! Hardly a car passed, and not a store was open. After all, everyone else was already at home enjoying their own beautiful Christmas tree.

Eventually, we made contact with another “Family Helping Families” group traveling toward us. We had never met before, but these people brought us hope and cheer. They backtracked several hours to find the needed parts. They brought water, shared granola bars, and helped find an open Pizza Hut. It wasn’t turkey, but pizza never tasted so good.

Next day, I awoke to a stocking stuffed with work gloves, measuring tape, and a hammer. These weren’t exactly the items on my wish list to Santa. After preparing some food, we drove to the train tracks. As soon as we dropped the tailgate, hungry villagers appeared out of nowhere. We sliced turkey, dished potatoes, and handed out oranges. At first it was awkward; I had never done anything like this before. I couldn’t understand them; they couldn’t understand me. One by one the Mexican children smiled; I smiled back. Later, I surprised myself by playing football in the desert.

The next morning we arrived at a foundation waiting for walls. I made electrical boxes and screeded sand. Trowel in hand, I laid block with mortar. Interior walls appeared with the help of hammers and saws. Roof rafters were hoisted, lined up and set in place. An inexperienced army nailed plywood sheeting. Luckily, the roof held the army’s weight. Finally, we presented the home to a tearfully grateful family.
The building was simple in looks but not simple in meaning. The walls rose up not only block by block, but also with the sweat of our caring character. The building showed I learned several new skills in just five days and also represented an achievement of which I am proud. Recalling the image of the crude building, I see the scenes of my transitional experience in Mexico: the scratchy feeling of sand blowing into my eyes; the callouses earned while troweling a block wall; my host brother and his newfound Mexican friends communicating with their invented sign language; me, enjoying my first delicious street taco; and finally exchanging the overwhelming heat, dust, and poverty for the quiet and contemplative comfort of my own room that was still missing a Christmas tree. The person who left that room on Christmas Eve, however, was a boy. The person who returned was an adult.