In movies and books, people often describe a defining moment when they figure out who they are. However, I never thought it actually happened in real life. I never expected to have a “moment” of my own. When it arrived, mine was much more powerful than I could have ever imagined.
During the spring of my junior year, my class watched a documentary called “The Invisible Children.” It was about three college students who take a trip to Africa and document their experience. At first the film was slightly humorous; the filmmakers clearly had no idea what they were getting into. One said at the beginning, “I don’t really know what to expect. I hope we don’t, like, die or something.”
However, once the group arrived in northern Uganda, the mood changed. They learned what the consequences of a 23-year war had been for thousands of children. Many had lost family and friends, some had younger siblings who were captured by the rebel army and recruited as child soldiers, others had no home and slept in alleys too cramped for us to comprehend.
There was footage of night commuters and child soldiers, many younger than me.
Before long, I was sobbing. I just kept thinking, What have I been doing with my life? I couldn’t believe these things were happening, yet at the same time I knew they were. I just hadn’t been paying attention. For 17 years I was blissfully unaware in my little bubble of Salt Lake City, Utah.
When the movie ended, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Later at swim practice it was hard to understand how my teammates could laugh and joke after what we had just seen. When I got home that night, I tried to tell my parents about the film, but I couldn’t get the words out. I hiccupped and choked my way through a description and what I thought I had to do now. I was able to convince my parents to donate $300 to The Invisible Children (I am still repaying them $20 a month). I went into my room and drew a big A on my white board with a circle around it, the following day I went looking for a job to save money for a trip to Africa.
For the next week, I was not myself. Every bite of food I took I thought of Grace, the 15-year-old who was eating for two. When I went to bed, I pictured Sunday, the 14-year-old boy sleeping on a straw mat on the ground in a displacement camp. My whole perspective shifted.
Since that day, I haven’t been able to picture my future in a way that doesn’t involve going to Africa and doing what I can to help. Ultimately, this is why I decided to major in engineering. When I found out about the Engineering Without Borders program, it was as if the clouds in my head cleared and sunshine burst through. After the initial shock of discovering what I wanted to do with my life, I could see myself accomplishing everything that had now become so important to me. I could not only go to Africa, but I could use my education and skills to make a difference.
With an engineering degree, my potential for change will be limitless. I will build wells, schools, and houses. I will design irrigation systems and orphanages. Engineering is tough, but I know – in what Yeats called “my deep heart’s core” – that this is what I’m supposed to do with my life.
