At any given moment, there are 63 pens or pencils scattered in my room. Falling out of purses, backpacks, stuck in my coat pockets or ponytail — it seems they are in unlimited supply. They mean nearly nothing to me — when I lose one, I spend 10 seconds being frustrated before I replace it with the next writing utensil I see.

My surplus of pens and pencils  meant virtually nothing to me before I took a trip with the International Marquette Action Program (IMAP) to Belize over Christmas break. I expected to be exposed to injustice and poverty. I hoped to be able to offer some help. I anticipated feeling frustration toward God and government. I did not expect to find value in pencils.

Our group worked in a small village in Southern Belize on the Guatemalan border at a school which serviced 240 students in six classrooms with eight teachers. The classrooms were sparse, their supplies limited. There were no computers, let alone textbooks.

But there were pencils.

Every day, each student would head to school with a writing utensil in hand. That was it — a single school supply. The first day we were there, a little boy named Orlando approached me. His grimy hands were tightly clutching his dull pencil as he looked up at me with his huge, bright eyes. His gray shirt had a tear in the middle, patched with a piece of green string. He was wearing bright orange shorts, but his feet were bare.

Our friendship was immediate. He told me he liked my shirt — a shirt I had brought with the intention of leaving behind. In return, I asked him where his shoes were. He looked at me inquisitively, then shook his head.

Orlando did not have shoes. He was not sad about it, it was just his reality: he went to school every day with one pencil and no shoes.

The inequality between us was unearthed by one blasé comment from a 21-year-old white woman to an 8-year-old Mayan boy.

Luckily, Orlando ignored my arrogance and continued to hang out with me, but our differences only became more evident. At one point, his pencil dropped, and he scrambled to pick it up, as if it were his most prized possession. He examined it carefully, the way one does when one’s iPhone falls, to ensure no damage was done.

It occurred to me — the pencil was his most prized possession. This boy had a shirt with a hole in it, a pair of shorts, one pencil and no shoes. I, on the other hand, have an insane amount of pencils waiting for me at home, along with about 30 pairs of shoes, 50 shirts, six pairs of jeans, dozens of dresses and sweaters, at least 20 scarves and one floppy hat which I have worn only once.

While Orlando goes to school barefoot, I wear a different pair of shoes nearly every day. I live my life more like Madonna than Orlando — I am living in a material world, and I am a material girl. It is a first-world luxury to want more than we need, but the imbalance between the privileged and those without is just as evident in America as it is in Belize.

Being aware of this is the first way to effect change. It does not mean that Orlando or every child like him will suddenly have shoes and several writing utensils. It does mean that you read this, that you thought about it and that you might appreciate your shoes and
pencils more.