So just like in the U.S. we set aside specific days on which to show our appreciation to Mothers, Fathers, and Veterans, here in Argentina they also include days to commemorate one's Amigos and one's Children: Ninos. On this day one has an obligation, nay privilege, nay excuse to dote upon their kids with gifts and attention... but really the Argentines will come up with any reason to celebrate.
By a last minute stroke of coincidence, I was invited by a friend I met in Chile to spend this day helping out at La Casita de Ninos, a children's day care in Escobar which is a smaller, poorer city in provincial Buenos Aires. Unsure of exactly what I was getting myself into, I snatched the opportunity, woke with the sunrise this morning, and trudged over to the Plaza Italia bus station. An hour and $9 pesos later and I'm in Escobar!
La Casita is a little cement house chipped with bright blue paint and splotchy colorful handprints on its front. Inside amongst the crowded rooms and busy backyard are upwards of 20 kids from the ages 5 to 15 playing with well worn toys, swinging on the crooked playset, and painting with mixed up colors. Jeff, my amigo who graciously shared this little miracle with me, takes me around from face to face and introduces me to the extended family members that form La Casita. I receive a genuinely compassionate hug from Silvia, the director, as if I were a long lost neice at a family reunion. Each one of them greets me with a smile and a besito, and somehow I know that they will remember my name much easier than I will all of theirs.
Amidst playful little yells in the yard, Jeff explains to me in English (so the kids wont understand) what some of them have been through. I remember my stomach sinking as I tried to imagine the life some of them have known at such a young age, and feeling entirely naive and undeserving of the fortune of blessings that brought me to this place. Little scuffles break out over toys and attention and suddenly the playful cherubic kids start hurling curse words and blows at each other, but this is behavior probably more familiar to them than the lovey dovey "use your words" discipline that sculpted my childhood. I learn pretty quick from the other grownups how to go from nueva amiga to la policia in the playground.
But soon we're cleaning up the games, setting out chairs, blowing up globitos (balloons) and handing out panchos (hot dogs) and torta (cake) as the fiesta for Dia del Nino is about to begin. A couple of the older kids and Jeff put on a show with puppets brought by a kindly patroness who narrates the storytelling and afterwards each one receives a wrapped present to take home with them. I regret having to leave for my afternoon classes because I almost got a chance to visit the villas, the slums where the majority of the children return home when La Casita isn't open, and talk with some of their families to see where and what they come from that lends the tint of sadness behind their bright brave eyes.
I know I have plenty of time though. The cloud of compassion and energy and joy that emanates from this house assures me that at whatever time I want to return to lend a hand, I will be welcomed. I could honestly hope for no higher honor than to assume a small role in that family over the next few months.
... I really don't know how to sum up this journal entry. I'd hate to use my brief glimpse into these kids' lives as a tale of how I've grown in character or a preaching point about how you should hug your child today and be thankful for the blessings in your life. I mean, does it even need to be said?? But as long as I'm relaying my daily Argentine life to whomever on the other side of this blog wants to read about it, it's probably worth a mention. You wouldn't know it or even want to believe it unless you've seen it. I did... so I guess I'm just confirming it in a testimony to those who didn't.
Pain and poverty, unlike anything we know in the United States, is real and very much commonplace in the rest of the world.
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