Reflections
God's children . . .
I stood up abruptly. Reached out to the invisible child and held him close to my heart. He, who was eight months old, cried continuously for long hours, off and on, hungry and in soiled diaper; and then he was listless. Eyes closed, I held him tighter. The mother, a twenty year old methamphetamine addict, was on a hunting spree for her daily dose. The whereabouts of his father was unknown. Eventually, I looked out the window of my third floor office. This annexe was part of the oldest building on campus, the rest were high rising edifices. My vision swept across the rooftop of adjoining buildings; the pedestrian crossing mark on the curved road; a patch of fenced-in green field where the students were kicking a soccer ball; and then stopped on the designated path where dog-walkers were walking their dogs with plastic sacks in hand, ready to scoop up their waste and dump it in marked bins. Beyond was the breeze-way of Wham building. My vision froze on these pets on leash, who were indeed more cared for by their owners than the 'so-real' child I was holding in my mind.
More visions appeared haltingly…
I was at a children's home to observe group behavior. A young boy of ten years was trying desperately to find a quiet corner to make himself invisible. There was a mix of children in that session, all were there to share, or not to share, their pain. Someone walked up to him, smiled and held him in a tight embrace saying, "Don't be nervous." It was not the words but the touch of acceptance, the emotional longing for love, the unspoken assurance of 'all will be ok,' that made him smile and laugh along with the group. Would he survive life? I do not know. The wondrous world of this once curious six-year-old was of consequence and beautiful. His alcoholic parents distorted it into a scary one. His mind always wandered back to that lonely place of rejection; a place of not knowing why he was spanked or why he was deprived of food, or why he was locked out of home. Here he was alone in a room full of people. The simple instinct for him was to be close to someone, to have hope, to endure.
And then on another occasion a five-year old walked up to me and said, "What is this?" A notebook on which one can write. She gave me a blank stare. Eager to talk, she asked, "Do you know Tania?" No. "She calls Rayan's mom grandma." Oh…then there was quiet. "Do you know Sheila?" No. "She is Sam's baby sister, she is younger than me. Her daddy works in a company. My dad doesn't work." Since she decided to include me in her little world she refused to accept my silence and was determined to gain affirmation. "See my hair clips?" It was then when I noticed the lively face with a set of curious blue eyes, the innocent smile, the smooth light brown skin; her soft short hair held in place by two pink smiley-faced clips, and the burning bruise on her right cheek. A bi-racial child. For a while she sat on a chair, crossed legged, observing me, then got off to see what I was writing, coming close to touch my arm. She put her head sideways on the table, looking straight into my face. I stopped typing. We smiled at each other without saying a word. The childcare worker intervened and she left reluctantly. To me, she remained Sunny who was to be placed in a foster home in a few hours. Was the separation from her parents of significance to her? I am sure it would be in the long run.
In quiet hours at the office, as I go through the case histories, a bit of my heart gets chipped away, never to be put back again. These children are removed from homes where there are no fairytales, no make-believe magic, no cotton candies, no running through the meadows. For them the sky is never of pristine blueness; a home empty of hugs and assurances. Instead, there is abandonment, children with controlled substance in their system, deprivation, and abusive circumstances --- their lives in the shadows of addiction, substance abuse, and violence. Home, for them is an elusive concept. These children are homeless at home.
Often for hours I forget to laugh and question the offerings of beauty in life. I breathe slowly, imprisoned in these live stories. And then, so-very-often, I call my children, ending with many versions of love you(s). Thus affirmed, I pick up my coffee mug and move on to the next set of record. Beyond these trimmed accounts are the tales of untold horrors faced by children who are removed from their parents and placed in custodial care. My job is to remain ever vigilant to the challenges in the system so I can recommend better services both for the children and their families. In spite of my rational approach to patchworks of healing: counseling, psychotherapy, mental health assessments, the how(s) of ridding grief, anger, isolation, shame, guilt; reestablishing primary relationships. For me the question persists: Distancing from the pain, how one can heal the broken young hearts? Resilient though they may be? How do I find that inner child in each?
For these children the following remains a blank verse…
"This seems a Home / And Home is not / But what that Place could be
Afflicts me – as a setting Sun/Where Dawn knows how to be"….
Ainon N. writes from Dhaka.
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