At least a few times this year I will write longer entries that will go up on the PCUSA´s website. Here´s a sneak preview of my update.
Dear Friends,
They told me to walk with the people. In orientation, the ministers and church people, the former volunteers, that´s the advice they gave us. Walk with the people. To me, it sounded a little too much like ¨marching in the light of God¨ (Siahamba...oo-EEE-oo!) I want to do a little more than just walk with people. I´d like to actually do something.
I´m two months into my placement. I work as the Young Adult Volunteer at El Hogar La Casita, a home for street boys, a stop along the social services ¨system.¨ The boys are 8-20 years old. They are rough, some of them, and nice, sometimes. Ask a boy at La Casita why they are there, and you will get a heartbreaking story. Abuse, addiction, abandonment. That´s not who they are, but it is a place they´ve been. I try to keep that in my mind when I´m with the boys.
In the mornings, I walk Luis and Walter to school. Luis is eight and he drags a broken Loony Toons book bag behind him. Walter is twelve and we practice counting in English as we walk: ¨One, two...ten, eleven, Tuesday.¨ I walk them home from school a couple hours later, and my day at the Hogar begins.
I´ve eaten cafeteria food all of my life. Public school, university dining hall, and a private school where I taught last year. I love it. But I have never met a group of young people who appreciate their food more than these boys. Everyday, they ask me, smiles and food on their faces, ¨¿Rico, no?¨ Delicious, huh? ¨Sí, riquisimo.¨ Yes, the most delicious. In cold weather, the oven and the food are all that warm the little room where we eat. The boys and I sit on church pews on either side of mismatched tables. They eat quickly. They clean their plates. They ask for seconds.
After lunch, it´s time to go to the park. The park is 15 blocks away. Not a short trip with these boys. I walk. I try to keep them ¨en grupo.¨ They are spread out over five blocks. Some of them are climbing trees and stealing oranges. I try to save them from traffic. They told me to walk with the boys. They didn´t tell me about traffic. They didn´t tell me that fights would break out mid-avenue. They didn´t tell me that I would have to hold Joaquín´s hand because he wants love and Nahuel´s because he wants to hit Joaquín. They said only to walk. And so I walk. To the park, to school, home, and to work. I ride the bus. I take the train. I close my eyes in the noise and try to hear every sound. I don´t listen to the noise. The Hogar has lots of noise. I listen in the noise, and I break up fights, and I hug a hundred times a day.
It´s dinner time now. I´ve just walked in the gate that separates the boys from the street. I sit down to my dinner with some of the older boys. They are talking about fútbol. Always. And I see Walter outside on the bench. I go out. I put my arms around him until he stops crying. The night is cold and dark. What happened, I ask. He doesn´t have an answer for me. How could he? What happened? That´s like asking the hurricane victim, or the earthquake survivor what happened. This boy doesn´t know. And neither do I.
I´m discovering that walking with people who hurt means that I will hurt. The boys don´t understand why they are where they are, and sometimes I don´t understand why I am where I am. I want to be effective. I want to see my effectiveness effecting change. So far this experience is teaching me that effectiveness isn´t always the bottom line. We often work below the bottom line, where God´s love moves and works.
After dinner tonight, I went with the older boys to collect old bread from the local bread shops. They lumber down the street as only teenage boys lumber, like a graceful stumble that says, I´m too cool to look like I´m actually trying to walk. The boys whistle at girls. ¨Por favor, [expletive deleted].¨ They bum cigarettes from the people on the main drag. One picks through the trash looking for anything of use. One leans close to my ear and says, ¨After tonight, you won´t eat the bread at the Hogar.¨ Some bread shops give us a lot, one gives us none. We finish and I head home for the night.
Five blocks to my house. Depending on the day, I may be tired. I´m often angry. On this walk I air out all of my self-doubt. I didn´t handle that right. I was weak. I wasn´t as loving as I could have been. I stop in the window of an English school. Private academies have sprung up around the city. They´ve decorated the front hallway for Halloween. For a moment I peer through the window and soak up the familiar sights. Jack-o-lantern cutouts taped to the wall, a black witch hat sitting atop the TV. For a moment, I think I should throw open these doors and start a Halloween party. I should declare ¨I speak English perfectly!¨ I want someone to value me for my mind. I want badly for someone to be impressed that I have smart thoughts. I haven´t said anything smart in Spanish. Which means I haven´t said anything smart in two months. And that´s when I get it. As I´m standing on the sidewalk looking at Halloween decorations like they´re modern art, I realize that I´ve spent most of my life wanting people to like me for my brain, my personality, and for funny things I say. And this year, people will love me without any of those reasons. The boys will love me just because I love them.
I look up to see what stars are visible through the city-light pink. I cross the street. I round the corner. I fall asleep.
I can talk about successes. I´ve instituted something resembling consequences with the boys. The social worker and I are entering real discussions about how to improve the Hogar. Many of the boys trust me. The older boys respect me. These are the blocks I´ll try to build on. But for now, I´m trying to be content with where I am and remember that small steps got me here and small steps will get me through the next week.
Peace,
Andrew
