So this is not part 3 of 3 of my backwards-forwards-it-will-come-together blogging set. I promise I will next talk about my vacations in these last few weeks. However, if you know me, writing is somewhat of a release for me. So with this last experience, with these sentiments pounding in my heart and making it hard to sleep, I decided to share the sticky burden with all who read this. Thus, here it is:
08.05.13
As
is possible with most bad habits, this one started on the playground. This
specific playground was fairly normal: scrawling chalk drawings, small metal
slides speckled with rust spots, and squeaky swings that shuffled in the wind
when left unburdened.
This
playground was boxed in by the pre-kinder nursery rooms, 90 children staring
with expectant eyes as the morning’s clouds rolled away. It was beneath this
beating sun that we pulled out what turned out to be some sort of magical,
child-magnetizing tool, far better than video games or even candy – bubbles.
Within mere seconds of blowing the
first stream of glistening bubbles, our small gringo group of three made fast
friends. The three to six year-olds who had previously kept a safe distance from
the blonde giants came running to play. Immediately, I was transformed from
bubble-holder to jungle gym – kids on my shoulders, in my lap, dripping bubble
solution down my sweater and on my tennis.
But this story does not really
pertain to the magic bubbles at all, not really. No, this story finds its
center with one particular boy. Like all the cryptic authors say, we’ll call
him . . . Marcos.
I think it would be fair to say
that Marcos is an average boy. His black cap of hair is in need of a cut and
flops in strange patterns when he is running. His mini polo shirt – like his
hair, a little to big – is cinched in tight where it meets his jeans. His big,
brown eyes widen when any compliments are paid toward his fast-and-good-for-running
Spiderman sneakers.
Marcos, for being a fiver year-old
boy with un montón of directed
energy, is also a somewhat accomplished sharer. With only three bottles of
bubbles to share with the 50 children swarming the playground, sharing was
imperative. Although reluctant to let go of the bubble-wand – especially after
a disappointing release of tiny bubbles – Marcos did surprisingly well
relinquishing his turn to the next child.
Usually, that is. As I watched the
pattern of Marcos’s behavior blossom, my heart sunk, heavy with disappointment.
One thing that is important to
understand about Guatemala is that since the colonization of Central America,
there has been a gap between the Spanish and the indigenous. Never mind that
they make up 60 percent of the current population, still today the mayan
population holds meager jobs, has less access to education, and fights against
bitter stereotypes that have become their reality. (That, of course, is a
generalization, but it is one that I have come to see as fairly accurate.) The
tourist industry has capitalized on their broader features and colorful
clothing, but in cultural society, the indigenous are often disregarded as less
than valuable.
So I watched as Marcos would share
and laugh with his little boy friends – the ones who looked like him and had
parents and traditions like his. When the little girl, dressed in her mini
traditional huipil, pushed her hand into the circle to play, Marcos’s reaction
was to first walk away from her. When she followed, he’d blow bubbles directly
into her face. After a while of her persisting, he turned to shoving and
grabbing the wand from her hand. As he saw acted out on the streets each day,
possibly in his home – this is what he did.
So perhaps you can see why I lost
my breath a little and felt like desperation was clawing at my throat. These
were children. They are the “hope of the future,” our crowning glory, the
innocent – and they simply acted out in their little-child world, the dirty
adult games their parents and their society had set before them. With the
selfish attitudes and disregarding actions given to them as toys, they eagerly
put on their too-big roles. Do we know the power we have?
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