This morning while Mike and I were sitting at the designated picnic table for our R-V space, children came over to speak with us. (It was probably Mike-he’s a kid magnet.) The littlest one Cloe-with-no-h, focused on Fiona, petting her head, which she hates, and giving her treats. The older girl Theresa apparently didn’t need to breathe during her monologue about the extra, unspecified people living at someone’s house but having to leave because “the neighbors didn’t like two families in one house.” We also learned about the day-by-day activities at the camp she would be attending but not until the second week and the activities she would therefore be missing. Turns out her brother could not go to the waterslide because he broke his leg and something about a 360 (there wasn’t space for questions).
Cloe’s brother Kilian, who is 10, joined us on his bike, mostly standing but occasionally sitting and trying to stay balanced on the bike. He explained the Cloe had no “h” in her name. Apparently that is a thing in their family because he is Kilian with one “l.” His family is currently living in their trailer because “we got kicked out of our house.” Having rendered us speechless, the children took off on bikes and roller skates. All of this reminded me of the fact that kids will tell you/say anything. In my kindergarten class, Show or Tell was a daily practice. Once, not having brought something to show, I shared that my mom had diarrhea again. Thank God for that “or.”
Sometimes we’re at campgrounds where no one speaks to us. Sometimes the guy across the road helps Mike back into a tight space. The men exchange career trajectories: Ph’d from Oregon State, professor somewhere, left academia and became the CFO (CEO?) of a small hospital. No doubt our neighbor left with an abbreviated version of Mike’s professional life: teacher, asst. principal, principal, district superintendent.
Sometimes people only speak to us to ask if we have a church. We become instant staunch Catholics because Catholics never ask if you have a church and evangelicals often regard Catholics with suspicion and a bit of fear (the Inquisition? Crusades?). Six years at St. Bernadette’s taught me that non-Catholics were going to hell anyway. That smug belief collapsed after I “got out” of St. B’s. My classmates and I always refer to our exits as “getting out.” Appropriate as the three story brick school looks like a prison and was populated by the old breed of nuns. My sister’s school had nuns who actually had ankles and took students on fun field trips. I had fully habited Franciscan nuts who wielded terror and humiliation to keep students in line. Very Effective.
Sometimes we meet people who hit their dogs and recommend that we hit our precious Fiona. In their defense, Fiona does bark a lot. More frequently we nod hellos and discretely check bumpers for unacceptable stickers. I don’t want to talk to anyone about their politics, whatever they are. Mike seems to love those discussions but I like him anyway.
When we meet children, like today, we feel gratitude and sadness in equal measure. Both of us grew up in families where we were safe and where we had the necessities. Yes, there sometimes was an undercurrent of money worries, penny-pinching meals, and some pretty nice hand-me-downs from friends of my mother’s with older children. I don’t think I ever had a new uniform for St. Bernadette’s but as they were hideous new or old, I didn’t mind. Charity went both ways, though, with my parents always giving to less fortunate folks.
Was it only me or do children routinely live lives where they understand little of what is going on? My mother used to volunteer her children to participate in various charitable activities. When needed Mom would take me to a home near ours where five people rotated the limbs and head of a very unhappy girl. I never got the head because “she bites.” Looking back on it now, we must’ve been helping to develop coordination. I never knew the girl’s name unless it was Honey, and I never knew what was wrong and why we were hurting this girl. When I asked my Mom she said to be grateful I didn’t need that kind of help. I was grateful, believe me.
When I was fifteen, my mother thought it would be a good idea to help her with the Vietnam Veterans in the pool at Walter Reed Army Hospital. So, wearing the full coverage two-piece bathing suit my mother had sewn for me, I got into the pool and swam around with horribly injured young mental not much older than I was. That happened only once and I have no idea why my participation stopped. What I do know is that day everyone in the pool was sad.
So here we sit, Mike and I, survivors of our own incomprehensible childhoods, looking worriedly at the children we met today. Is there anything we can reasonably do to help? The kids have clothes that look fine to us; they have bikes and no adult supervision. Maybe that’s kid heaven–I know I would’ve enjoyed less scrutiny. As educators Mike and I were in unique positions to help our students—sometimes by listening, sometimes by calling CPS. I think all we can do here is wait. Maybe there will be an opportunity to help. Maybe not. Cloe is four and oblivious but I can already see worry on Kilian’s 10 year old face.
travels without fiona (the dog) 