The World Cup and Goodbyes

Dear Friends,

On game day, the streets are empty- like Christmas day. Business close during the game. Buses run slow. At the Hogar, the process starts long before kickoff. The boys have to clean their rooms before the director of the Hogar, a widely-despised man named Walter, will turn on the power. On this particular day, there was paint all over the floor. The boys had showered Germán with flour, water, and paint to celebrate his birthday. The beds must be made. The floors must be cleaned. And most importantly, the TV needs to be operable before 4 o´clock when the game will start and Argentina´s World Cup hopes will either be squashed or vaulted. For a nation struggling to be hopeful, the importance of The World Cup cannot be overstated.

During the game, the boys sit in chairs, on their beds, or stand, nervously shifting their weight. In addition to the TV, there is a warped table, cement floors, and a few metal chairs. From time to time, Pepe has to kick the side of the TV stand to jar the cables back into place, fix the picture, and relieve the tension that grips the room whenever the screen goes to snow. The room is cold and unheated. The boys watch intently, in turn cursing the refs, the opposing players, and their own players as the ball moves around the field. If an Argentine player makes a bad pass, the boys yell expletives and insult his mother. When Argentina scores they scream. They shake their fists in the air. They throw their chairs across the room.

Although Argentina lost in penalty kicks to a clearly inferior German team, I was blessed to share the excitement with these boys. When the dream was squashed, we hugged, patted each other on the back. Pepe cried and began speculating about the Olympics in two years.

My time at El Hogar La Casita, a home for abused, neglected, and abandoned boys in Buenos Aires, draws to a close. In a week, I´ll return to the United States to see my family and friends and to face a barrage of questions, beginning with ¨How was it?¨

How was it? It was a year. It wasn´t perfect and neither was I. I was sad and capricious, angry and lonely and short-tempered. And in all my failings the boys loved me. Even when I didn´t want to be there, I wanted to be there.

In these final weeks, I have tried to say my goodbyes in my own way. Those who know me know that I believe in food. I believe in its ability to show deep gratitude and feed the soul as much as the body. Last week, I showed my gratitude to the boys through food. For the younger boys, I made an asado (Argentine barbecue), and for the older boys, I treated them to dinner out at the neighborhood all-you-can-eat buffet.

I chose this way to say thank you and goodbye because I wanted to give the boys one meal when they could ask for seconds and receive them. I wanted to give them plenty- if just for once.

Seconds (and thirds for that matter) are important. There are a thousand small doors that open with privilege. So many doors, we sometimes mistake them for a big door called rich, white, or first-world. But the doors are small. We see them more easily in aggregate. Lucas asks for seconds at lunch and the cook says no. It´s a small no, a small defeat, but that door closes and the no´s add up to a wall. Long before I could speak my mind, I spoke my stomach. What happens to kids like Lucas who learn early on that there´s no reason to speak up, the answer´s always no? The asado last Saturday was a chance for them to get nothing but yes´s- and lots and lots of good food.

At dinner out with the older boys, everyone buzzed with nervous energy. None of them were entirely comfortable, but Alan, the youngest of the group at 13, was the clearly the most unsure of himself. What do I do? Can I eat whatever I want? And dessert? Is there a bathroom here? Can I use it?

After I explained that all-you-can-eat means you can keep going back for more if you want and that includes dessert, and yes, the bathrooms are for everybody, including you, he calmed down and started to enjoy himself.

I´m reminded of my privilege (those many open doors), when the boys feel like they need to whisper, slouch, and try to disappear in public. They have been told repeatedly, ¨You don´t belong here. Go away. And no you cannot have seconds.¨

Alan ate his fill of grilled chicken and french fries. Pepe ate steak and more steak. Germán ate seven bowls of ice cream, and on the walk home, he hobbled like an old man, claiming the ice cream was kicking his insides.

Alan, Jonathon, and I walked back from dinner arm over arm. We often walk this way, like members of a strolling chorus line, like friends. Alan looked up at me and said flatly, ¨I´ve never eaten like that.¨ Alan hadn´t ever eaten like that. He´d never been to a restaurant. He´s never been to a movie or a fair. He´s never even been to a friend´s house to hang out.

Alan, more than any of the boys at the Hogar, is a child of hogars (homes). His mother had AIDS, and since he was two years old he has been a ward of the state. His mom was in the hospital on Monday when we went out to dinner. She died that Thursday.

When I saw Alan on Friday, we hugged. He had already been to the cemetery to bury his mom. When I asked him about it, he had the look of someone who had already done his mourning. He shrugged and smiled, as if to say, What am I supposed to do, it was bound to happen.

I get to go home. No matter what I do in my life, where I go, what clothes I dress myself in, I have parents who love me, and a family that would take me in and even take me out to eat.

I´m coming home, and I can´t bring these boys with me. So what do I do? I don´t do anything. I come home and be me.

So, How was it? It was a year. It wasn´t perfect and neither was I. But I got to say yes to a bunch of guys who are used to no´s. I don´t know how many yes´s I´ve been this year. When we do homework together, when we walk to school, when we go to the park, when we eat together,
Can I play with the flashcards?
Can I carry the ball?
Can we whistle when the train passes?
Can I say the blessing?
Yes, yes, yes, yes.

Thank you, boys, for saying yes to me, too.

Andrew