They haven’t been paid in three months. They still work. They still come to the rustic school in the dusty town that has become my home, and they teach. When I first heard that the Peruvian teachers of grades one through six at my school hadn’t been paid in three months, I was filled with anger. Anger isn’t specific enough. Righteous indignation is more accurate. I felt righteous indignation that something deep in the web of bureaucracy of the education system in this developing country was keeping hard working educators from the salary that they deserved. Oh, the system officials spit out excuses. The surrounding area of the school was poor they said. There simply wasn’t money. According to the teachers, there was money, but it was in the pockets of the officials. A poor struggling school and accusations of corruption were the ingredients of a great cause and I wasn´t going to miss out.

The journalist/activist being awakened inside me, I went home from class that day, and with my jaw firmly set, I grabbed a pen. The pen is mightier than the sword, I thought. I will write in elegant prose the need for education and the un-justness of the situation. I will set the matter straight by sending this eloquent hard hitting letter to the Peruvian education system. Halfway through “To whom it may concern” my pen fell limp. Well, first because the higher-ups in the education system of a Spanish speaking country would certainly not understand if I wrote in English. Second, because even if they did, what would they care if some gringo English teacher told them off in a letter, no matter how much he was filled with righteous indignation.

Plan B. I would lead a strike. Yes, we would all strike from going to school. That would show them! I even brought my Martin Luther King shirt! But as the bells of revolution resounded in my head, I paused. What kind of strike? All kids and teachers just don’t come to school? I came down here to help kids learn, and then we have a strike from school. Makes sense. Actually, if I led a strike, the only strikers would probably be those kids in the back of fifth and sixth grade who just tell jokes and eat cheese puffs during class.

On to plan C. I could raise money from the states. It would be about twelve thousand dollars to sustain the school through December. My thoughts hit roadblocks yet again. By the time the money would be raised and down here, if it could be raised, the school year would be over (theirs ends in December).

My visions of hero student missionary faded. There would be no heroic saving of schools for me. I threw my “to whom it may concern” letter across the room. I dropped my not-so-mighty pen on the floor, frustrated by how little I could do. Frustrated that I couldn’t save the world. Frustrated by a city that didn’t put the education of its next generation first. How would this country continue developing when it treats its teachers and students in such a manner? My thoughts trailed off. My rant wasn’t doing any good. My rant was fueled by my idealism and by my American mindset. The latter of which never does anyone any good down here.

School continued without teacher salaries. Here, south of the equator, spring was coming, and it was time for the annual spring picnic. I wondered if the festivities would go on as planned. The teachers announced to all the students that the festivities were on. Everyone was to bring a little something to help out, a cucumber here, and a carrot there. The teachers were going to supply the rest. It was to be a fish fry.

What a fish fry it was! It was raining, so the festivities were moved inside. All the students gathered in an upper grade class. We cleared an area on the dirt floor in the middle of the classroom for a fire. One student’s dad is a fisherman on the Ucayali River. He brought bags and bags of fish. We fried them up right there in the middle of the classroom. Once the last fish was fried, we turned the classroom into a dining hall. The desks became dining tables, and fresh Chicha Morada (refreshing Peruvian drink made from corn) was set out on each table. Then the fish basket was passed around. The lone basket was pilled so high that fish were falling on the floor. We all waited in eager anticipation for our serving. I was served by the head teacher herself. As she put fish on my plate, I asked her the purpose of the meal. I’ll never forget what she said. She said that this was a feast to thank God for all the blessings he has given us. There was no hint of sarcasm or irony in her voice. There was no trace of bitterness. Here, the lady that wasn´t even getting money to make copies for class or buy chalk for the board was having a leading out in a meal of thanksgiving. I squint my eyes and look off in the distance, the way you do when you´re contemplating something really difficult.

We ate. It’s was some of the best fish I’ve ever had. I look around the room. Folks were eating like was the best fish they had ever had too. Maybe was just the circumstances around the meal. It was a meal about a school that came together for thanksgiving even when they had no money. It was a meal about six Peruvian teachers who truly know how to be thankful.

I wrote no letters, I gave no speeches, I led no revolutions. I didn´t even wear my Martin Luther King shirt (it was dirty). I would love to take on the corruption of the officials in this country, and if God leads me to these ends I would be thrilled. It is not likely. I have come to the humbling realization that I can´t change the world. What I have realized is that if change is to come at all, it must come from the bottom up. I may not be able to change the hearts of corrupt officials, but what I can do is teach my students morals, and teach them Christ. They can become the city officials of tomorrow, city officials that have integrity and a respect for morality and education. You may say this is still idealistic, and you may be right. But as for me and my fellow fellow teachers in a forgotten school in South America, what have we got to lose?