For Esme, With Love and Hope
Little moments from the BNC (2007)
Grace
Aunt Gert had finished her journey as an educator as I was beginning mine.
“You really should come... you would love it.”
It started out as a thought, a conversation starter.
“Oh I would love to, dear, but there is my trip to Japan, the church is opening in the spring, and I am just so busy here in Montauk.... I can’t.”
The experience was not one I could fully explain in words but I knew that someone had to come to see with her own eyes, just to understand what I felt... agape. It is a word I learned here, even before I could define it. A Christ-like love. I first felt it for a few months a year ago when I set eyes on these children during my first visit. Dad said what made that trip so profound and so memorable for me was that for one of the first times in my life I was able to let go and be myself without looking over my shoulder to see who was watching. Whatever the reason, I feel it- I feel peace.
It’s not uncommon in life to be lost, to be searching, to face adversity. I was seeking control over who I was to become in my life when the Holy Spirit guided me here. But for the grace of God I ended up in a part of the world few knew and where I began to unwrap some of the gifts He had given me. So often we seek to make an impact on others but when we look back we see the impact was on us. God bless the broken road, Esme, that led me straight to you- and through you to Him.
Overtime
Five o’clock is not quitting time... it’s starting time. The games are put away, the computers are shut off, and all the volunteers climb into the bakkie and leave Katutura but I stay- just for an hour or two, just to connect one-on-one with a few kids for a little while longer. Romachell, Esme, Bonita- whoever feels like staying late and walking the streets. They say that in Katutura the street is the life and the life is the street. No one really wants to go home, and I can’t blame them.
“What time does your mother want you home for dinner?”
“We don’t have dinner.”
It isn’t so much tragic as matter of fact. There simply is not much to do at home. No Xbox, no internet, no toys. It is much more fun to stay out with everyone else- at least it’s cooler outside. They say it’s the ghetto. They say don’t be there at night. But love doesn’t punch out at 5pm.
Nonetheless, it is getting dark; I should be on my way home. Just a few more hugs, a few more good-byes.
“!Nam si da, Meroldi”
“!Nam si da, Scooter!”
“!Nam si da, Salome.”
“!Nam si da, Scooter!”
“!Nam si da, Esme!”
“You, too, Scooter.”
One of these days she will say it- because I know she feels it. She is ten-years old and so wonderful. Surely one of these days she will act out. Eventually she will test the limits of what she can get away with. Not today. There is something about the way she finds her way through the crowd to sit on my lap. The way she tricks a little girl to lean to the side so she can squeeze in beside me. We can sit in silence, her on my lap with nothing being said. What can a 24 year old discuss with a 10 year old anyway? In our silence, I hope she sticks around for a little while longer. I can talk to Romachell or Salome or Susmitha- they are the chatter bugs- but Esme is something else.
She’ll ask me a random question in Damara, as if I would understand.
“No thank, you I respond,” trying, in vain, to guess what she might have been asking.
“What I did say?”
“You asked me if I would like a million dollars.”
She laughs. “No, Scooter, I did say....”
Hope
One day we are hanging out after the center is closed. The security guard has not shown up yet... will he ever? Romachell has just puffed. I am offended- he didn’t even ask me to pull his finger. This one stinks and Romachell walks away, laughing.
“Esme, who do you live with?”
“My family.”
“Who is in your family?”
“My mother, my granny, my auntie...”
“What about your father?”
“He is gone.”
“...to Heaven?”
“I don’t know.”
She doesn’t seem very open to the question and I withdraw. There may be a time later when she is more willing to open up. They say these children are orphaned and endangered. What does that mean? Abusive uncles? Promiscuous aunties? Alcoholic mothers? Dead parents? The statistics say one in five have HIV/AIDS. Surely in Katutura the percentages must be higher. Who has it? Who doesn’t? No one talks much about it. I suppose the weaker ones, the ones with sores that don’t heal, the ones with thinning hair might have it- but could you really tell by the way they hug or by the way they laugh? But it is here- and it is not going away. So is poverty. What about hope?
Hope. What do you hope for? Typing away on this amazing little iMac, I hope I can have one. Have you ever hoped for food? I’m not asking in the way Sally Struthers might ask. Don’t send money. Don’t feel guilt. Just think.
Today MB, as she was rummaging through a closet in the house, found a bag of letters from San Francisco she meant to distribute to the kids months ago. She hands them out randomly, each envelope contains a note wishing an anonymous child Merry Christmas- this is February. A few generic sentences about how friendly the kids sound. Keep in touch! Here is my picture! Junk mail. No, it’s my mail. A new friend. “Please hold this for me,” they ask.
A Day at the Grass Soccer Field
Today was Sunday and I drove Aunt Gert to Mass. It was a wonderful Mass, I suppose. I wouldn’t know- I left her at the church and drove back to Katatura. Driving from the Benedictine Church along the dirt road and seeing all the locals walking through the heat to attend Mass was inspiring. Throughout Katutura I saw similar acts of devotion. All in their Sunday best. Blessed are the poor.
After picking up Aunt Gert, we drive to the grass soccer field to watch the kids play. It is day two of a weekend worth of soccer on a nicely groomed grass field that MaryBeth has reserved. Win or lose, the privilege of playing on grass is all the kids really care about today.
Grass. We only notice it when it needs to be cut. It’s a chore to us, a privilege to them.
The sun is hot- we are in a desert- and Aunt Gert wants to get back home. (I tell MaryBeth that Aunt Gert has a wicked hangover.)
“Scooter, can I go with you?”
I turn to see Dora.
Can I actually tell her no when I was hoping she would ask?
“OK... but don’t tell anyone!” Except maybe Esme, Romachell, Wendy, and Salome.
Romachell and Dora walk out the gate casually; I will meet them out by the road. Esme is hiding in the back of the truck.
“Don’t let anyone else see.”
At the house they see some of my family photos and I offer them some Litchi Juice. They look at the photos on Aunt Gert’s computer. Simple joys.
We hop back in the bakkie and drive back to the grass fields.
“OK, I’ll let you three off at the gate so the other kids don’t see us.”
The kids hop out at the gate and sneak around.
“Scooter, where’s Dora and Romachell?” Meroldi asks before I even shut off the bakkie. Busted.
There is instant jealousy and bitterness.
“Why did you tell us we could not be in the truck then you take them? That’s not fair!”
Not fair? Not fair! I’m not fair. Life’s not fair. Is it fair that I let Edelsine run the computer room every day? Is it fair that Elizabeth bought Meroldi ice cream? Is it fair that I can come here on a whim to spend a few months with these kids and spoil them in the process? Nothing is fair. I cannot be fair. I cannot give out 150 hugs every time I give out one. I cannot let 150 kids come to the airport with me. It’s only fair if they are the ones being spoiled that day. They can be ornery little kids from time to time.
I must learn to be consistent ... or at least more inconspicuous.
Oh... and don’t make any promises either! They will hold you to them.
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
Sitting in the grandstand. Kids running all around. Dora by my side- hugging her.
“Dora, I will bring you to the airport when I leave.”
She smiles. “What about Bonitha?”
“Nambre y damure.” Wait and see. No promises.
Flashback to last April. I went to pick up the “seven angels” to bring them with me to the airport to say see me off and say goodbye. Dora caught wind of this... and she was waiting at the BNC with a sad look on her face.
“Scooter, can I come?”
“Dora... there is not enough room. If I could I would...”
“She is probably disappointed she won’t get to see the airport,” I think to myself.
But then tears run down her face.
My heart breaks. “No, she just wants to spend more time with me!”
Sometimes you don’t know how much you mean to some people. I never forgot how genuine she was that day. She is coming with me March 17.
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
I get to play with the BNC U-18 team. I’m 24. Shh! These are by far the best bunch of boys I have come across. Sydney. Brian. Lucky. Eric. Shema. Jerome. Romachell. All good souls. Eric and Jerome are amazingly nurturing around little Jaden, Romachell’s toddler brother. If only every father in this country was half as loving to their own kids.
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
Sha had another up and down day.
“One day, Sha! Give me one day where you are an angel the entire day!”
She is hurt on the inside, with scars on her body as a reminder of the struggle that life has already been- and will likely always be. She is angry. They say her mother is a drunk. She punches her sister- hard- because she took a bite of her fudge. She can’t let anything go. She is angry.
MaryBeth puts kids like this in the “Hug-Machine.” With Sha I have taken it one step further.
“Are you angry, Sha?”
She nods.
“Then give it to me, don’t hold it in. Give me a really big hug and squeeze all of your anger into me, I will take it from you.”
She squeezes me tight.
“Let it all out,” I tell her.
I pretend it is inside of me and with a shake of my hands I throw the anger out.
“Is that all your anger, hun? Give me one more hug to be sure.”
She smiles.
Other times I just sit and hold her in my lap. We sit quietly while she cools down.
“I love you, Sha.”
I repeat it like a mantra.
“I love you, Sha.”
I do... and I feel for her. Something happened somewhere at sometime by someone to damage her. She is too quick to run her mouth and exchange verbal jabs with anyone and everyone.
“Ignore them Sha, they are just words. If someone curses you, just smile. If someone calls you ugly, just smile... do you know why?”
A pause.
A shy grin.
“Because I’m beautiful.”
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
The afternoon is winding down and the yellow and red pinnies are being collected from the final two teams. Some of the girls are giggling and talking about a boy.
“Remember the rule,” I tell the girls over my shoulder.
“No boyfriends until you’re 30,” they respond like a choir of hens.
“Don’t even talk to them until you’re 25!” I add.
HIV
I remember first hearing about HIV when Magic Johnson held his press conference in the early 90’s. There was a stigma then, as there is today. International teams were wary about competing in the Olympics against a man who was infected by HIV- what if he got cut on the court? What if his sweat dripped onto another player? What if he sneezed on someone else? There was paranoia. There was ignorance.
The paranoia and ignorance continues today, and I too worry sometimes when I shouldn’t. I can remember holding Rundu and he had a sore on his head with puss and my finger touched it and I worried about what it might be.
We know so little about HIV. They always advise to not share needles and to avoid unprotected sex. More than twenty years after HIV first became a global crisis, there is still a mentality among many people that people with HIV are users or are promiscuous. Junkies have HIV. Gays have HIV. But there is another side to HIV that many don’t see- children with HIV.
Marla is about 11 years old and she is suffering from HIV. Her hair is thinning, she is putting on weight from the ARTs, and she is constantly tired and low on energy. I always suspected she might be sick, but it’s not something that comes up in casual conversation over soup at the BNC.
Then one day MaryBeth drove her to the airport to pick up a volunteer and, unprovoked, Marla offered an open, honest glimpse into her life. Raped as a little girl by her father, she has an abusive stepfather, and an alcoholic uncle. She has suffered more than most yet she survives. She sleeps on the dirt floor of her mother’s room with just a few dirty clothes and cardboard boxes keeping her from the ground. She is dying. Is life fair? Why is a defenseless child being subjected to this? What is the higher purpose? I pray that there is an eternity of peace and happiness waiting for her
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
Everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants to be hugged and to feel special. There is a term, apparently, for the psychological effect of touch. I hope I can stay in touch with these kids for many years.
“But there are plenty of needy children closer to home,” some have said.
Yea, but I know these children. And so I will come back.
Grace
Aunt Gert had finished her journey as an educator as I was beginning mine.
“You really should come... you would love it.”
It started out as a thought, a conversation starter.
“Oh I would love to, dear, but there is my trip to Japan, the church is opening in the spring, and I am just so busy here in Montauk.... I can’t.”
The experience was not one I could fully explain in words but I knew that someone had to come to see with her own eyes, just to understand what I felt... agape. It is a word I learned here, even before I could define it. A Christ-like love. I first felt it for a few months a year ago when I set eyes on these children during my first visit. Dad said what made that trip so profound and so memorable for me was that for one of the first times in my life I was able to let go and be myself without looking over my shoulder to see who was watching. Whatever the reason, I feel it- I feel peace.
It’s not uncommon in life to be lost, to be searching, to face adversity. I was seeking control over who I was to become in my life when the Holy Spirit guided me here. But for the grace of God I ended up in a part of the world few knew and where I began to unwrap some of the gifts He had given me. So often we seek to make an impact on others but when we look back we see the impact was on us. God bless the broken road, Esme, that led me straight to you- and through you to Him.
Overtime
Five o’clock is not quitting time... it’s starting time. The games are put away, the computers are shut off, and all the volunteers climb into the bakkie and leave Katutura but I stay- just for an hour or two, just to connect one-on-one with a few kids for a little while longer. Romachell, Esme, Bonita- whoever feels like staying late and walking the streets. They say that in Katutura the street is the life and the life is the street. No one really wants to go home, and I can’t blame them.
“What time does your mother want you home for dinner?”
“We don’t have dinner.”
It isn’t so much tragic as matter of fact. There simply is not much to do at home. No Xbox, no internet, no toys. It is much more fun to stay out with everyone else- at least it’s cooler outside. They say it’s the ghetto. They say don’t be there at night. But love doesn’t punch out at 5pm.
Nonetheless, it is getting dark; I should be on my way home. Just a few more hugs, a few more good-byes.
“!Nam si da, Meroldi”
“!Nam si da, Scooter!”
“!Nam si da, Salome.”
“!Nam si da, Scooter!”
“!Nam si da, Esme!”
“You, too, Scooter.”
One of these days she will say it- because I know she feels it. She is ten-years old and so wonderful. Surely one of these days she will act out. Eventually she will test the limits of what she can get away with. Not today. There is something about the way she finds her way through the crowd to sit on my lap. The way she tricks a little girl to lean to the side so she can squeeze in beside me. We can sit in silence, her on my lap with nothing being said. What can a 24 year old discuss with a 10 year old anyway? In our silence, I hope she sticks around for a little while longer. I can talk to Romachell or Salome or Susmitha- they are the chatter bugs- but Esme is something else.
She’ll ask me a random question in Damara, as if I would understand.
“No thank, you I respond,” trying, in vain, to guess what she might have been asking.
“What I did say?”
“You asked me if I would like a million dollars.”
She laughs. “No, Scooter, I did say....”
Hope
One day we are hanging out after the center is closed. The security guard has not shown up yet... will he ever? Romachell has just puffed. I am offended- he didn’t even ask me to pull his finger. This one stinks and Romachell walks away, laughing.
“Esme, who do you live with?”
“My family.”
“Who is in your family?”
“My mother, my granny, my auntie...”
“What about your father?”
“He is gone.”
“...to Heaven?”
“I don’t know.”
She doesn’t seem very open to the question and I withdraw. There may be a time later when she is more willing to open up. They say these children are orphaned and endangered. What does that mean? Abusive uncles? Promiscuous aunties? Alcoholic mothers? Dead parents? The statistics say one in five have HIV/AIDS. Surely in Katutura the percentages must be higher. Who has it? Who doesn’t? No one talks much about it. I suppose the weaker ones, the ones with sores that don’t heal, the ones with thinning hair might have it- but could you really tell by the way they hug or by the way they laugh? But it is here- and it is not going away. So is poverty. What about hope?
Hope. What do you hope for? Typing away on this amazing little iMac, I hope I can have one. Have you ever hoped for food? I’m not asking in the way Sally Struthers might ask. Don’t send money. Don’t feel guilt. Just think.
Today MB, as she was rummaging through a closet in the house, found a bag of letters from San Francisco she meant to distribute to the kids months ago. She hands them out randomly, each envelope contains a note wishing an anonymous child Merry Christmas- this is February. A few generic sentences about how friendly the kids sound. Keep in touch! Here is my picture! Junk mail. No, it’s my mail. A new friend. “Please hold this for me,” they ask.
A Day at the Grass Soccer Field
Today was Sunday and I drove Aunt Gert to Mass. It was a wonderful Mass, I suppose. I wouldn’t know- I left her at the church and drove back to Katatura. Driving from the Benedictine Church along the dirt road and seeing all the locals walking through the heat to attend Mass was inspiring. Throughout Katutura I saw similar acts of devotion. All in their Sunday best. Blessed are the poor.
After picking up Aunt Gert, we drive to the grass soccer field to watch the kids play. It is day two of a weekend worth of soccer on a nicely groomed grass field that MaryBeth has reserved. Win or lose, the privilege of playing on grass is all the kids really care about today.
Grass. We only notice it when it needs to be cut. It’s a chore to us, a privilege to them.
The sun is hot- we are in a desert- and Aunt Gert wants to get back home. (I tell MaryBeth that Aunt Gert has a wicked hangover.)
“Scooter, can I go with you?”
I turn to see Dora.
Can I actually tell her no when I was hoping she would ask?
“OK... but don’t tell anyone!” Except maybe Esme, Romachell, Wendy, and Salome.
Romachell and Dora walk out the gate casually; I will meet them out by the road. Esme is hiding in the back of the truck.
“Don’t let anyone else see.”
At the house they see some of my family photos and I offer them some Litchi Juice. They look at the photos on Aunt Gert’s computer. Simple joys.
We hop back in the bakkie and drive back to the grass fields.
“OK, I’ll let you three off at the gate so the other kids don’t see us.”
The kids hop out at the gate and sneak around.
“Scooter, where’s Dora and Romachell?” Meroldi asks before I even shut off the bakkie. Busted.
There is instant jealousy and bitterness.
“Why did you tell us we could not be in the truck then you take them? That’s not fair!”
Not fair? Not fair! I’m not fair. Life’s not fair. Is it fair that I let Edelsine run the computer room every day? Is it fair that Elizabeth bought Meroldi ice cream? Is it fair that I can come here on a whim to spend a few months with these kids and spoil them in the process? Nothing is fair. I cannot be fair. I cannot give out 150 hugs every time I give out one. I cannot let 150 kids come to the airport with me. It’s only fair if they are the ones being spoiled that day. They can be ornery little kids from time to time.
I must learn to be consistent ... or at least more inconspicuous.
Oh... and don’t make any promises either! They will hold you to them.
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
Sitting in the grandstand. Kids running all around. Dora by my side- hugging her.
“Dora, I will bring you to the airport when I leave.”
She smiles. “What about Bonitha?”
“Nambre y damure.” Wait and see. No promises.
Flashback to last April. I went to pick up the “seven angels” to bring them with me to the airport to say see me off and say goodbye. Dora caught wind of this... and she was waiting at the BNC with a sad look on her face.
“Scooter, can I come?”
“Dora... there is not enough room. If I could I would...”
“She is probably disappointed she won’t get to see the airport,” I think to myself.
But then tears run down her face.
My heart breaks. “No, she just wants to spend more time with me!”
Sometimes you don’t know how much you mean to some people. I never forgot how genuine she was that day. She is coming with me March 17.
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
I get to play with the BNC U-18 team. I’m 24. Shh! These are by far the best bunch of boys I have come across. Sydney. Brian. Lucky. Eric. Shema. Jerome. Romachell. All good souls. Eric and Jerome are amazingly nurturing around little Jaden, Romachell’s toddler brother. If only every father in this country was half as loving to their own kids.
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
Sha had another up and down day.
“One day, Sha! Give me one day where you are an angel the entire day!”
She is hurt on the inside, with scars on her body as a reminder of the struggle that life has already been- and will likely always be. She is angry. They say her mother is a drunk. She punches her sister- hard- because she took a bite of her fudge. She can’t let anything go. She is angry.
MaryBeth puts kids like this in the “Hug-Machine.” With Sha I have taken it one step further.
“Are you angry, Sha?”
She nods.
“Then give it to me, don’t hold it in. Give me a really big hug and squeeze all of your anger into me, I will take it from you.”
She squeezes me tight.
“Let it all out,” I tell her.
I pretend it is inside of me and with a shake of my hands I throw the anger out.
“Is that all your anger, hun? Give me one more hug to be sure.”
She smiles.
Other times I just sit and hold her in my lap. We sit quietly while she cools down.
“I love you, Sha.”
I repeat it like a mantra.
“I love you, Sha.”
I do... and I feel for her. Something happened somewhere at sometime by someone to damage her. She is too quick to run her mouth and exchange verbal jabs with anyone and everyone.
“Ignore them Sha, they are just words. If someone curses you, just smile. If someone calls you ugly, just smile... do you know why?”
A pause.
A shy grin.
“Because I’m beautiful.”
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
The afternoon is winding down and the yellow and red pinnies are being collected from the final two teams. Some of the girls are giggling and talking about a boy.
“Remember the rule,” I tell the girls over my shoulder.
“No boyfriends until you’re 30,” they respond like a choir of hens.
“Don’t even talk to them until you’re 25!” I add.
HIV
I remember first hearing about HIV when Magic Johnson held his press conference in the early 90’s. There was a stigma then, as there is today. International teams were wary about competing in the Olympics against a man who was infected by HIV- what if he got cut on the court? What if his sweat dripped onto another player? What if he sneezed on someone else? There was paranoia. There was ignorance.
The paranoia and ignorance continues today, and I too worry sometimes when I shouldn’t. I can remember holding Rundu and he had a sore on his head with puss and my finger touched it and I worried about what it might be.
We know so little about HIV. They always advise to not share needles and to avoid unprotected sex. More than twenty years after HIV first became a global crisis, there is still a mentality among many people that people with HIV are users or are promiscuous. Junkies have HIV. Gays have HIV. But there is another side to HIV that many don’t see- children with HIV.
Marla is about 11 years old and she is suffering from HIV. Her hair is thinning, she is putting on weight from the ARTs, and she is constantly tired and low on energy. I always suspected she might be sick, but it’s not something that comes up in casual conversation over soup at the BNC.
Then one day MaryBeth drove her to the airport to pick up a volunteer and, unprovoked, Marla offered an open, honest glimpse into her life. Raped as a little girl by her father, she has an abusive stepfather, and an alcoholic uncle. She has suffered more than most yet she survives. She sleeps on the dirt floor of her mother’s room with just a few dirty clothes and cardboard boxes keeping her from the ground. She is dying. Is life fair? Why is a defenseless child being subjected to this? What is the higher purpose? I pray that there is an eternity of peace and happiness waiting for her
~~~~~ ** ~~~~~
Everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants to be hugged and to feel special. There is a term, apparently, for the psychological effect of touch. I hope I can stay in touch with these kids for many years.
“But there are plenty of needy children closer to home,” some have said.
Yea, but I know these children. And so I will come back.
posted by Jim | 6:31 PM
2 Comments:
All I can say is Wow and how beautifully written that was!
I can feel your love for these children of Nambia.
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