Los niños en primero de primaria

No he escrito mucho sobre los niños con quienes trabajo aquí--la mayoría tienen sies años y son en primero de primaria. Tal vez es porque me tocan de una manera fuerte, que me abruma. Lo que comparten es tan grande, vivo, profundo, y variado.

Corren a la escuala con sus hermanos mayores, agarrándose de las manitos, evadiendo perros y autos hasta llegar a la clase doblados con agotamiento exagerado, sin poder respirar, como si hubieron corrido una maratón.

Hacen cosas como tocar mi espalda, entonces esperan con su mano, hacer dibujitos con sus dedos en mi espalda, entonces esperan otra vez, y finalmente me estiran de la camiseta hasta que me dé la vuelta. Me muestran sus dibujos, les digo, "Muy bien, sigue," y ellos regresan a sus mesas y escogen un nuevo lapiz de color.

Hacemos una lectura sobre la comida. "¿De donde viene?" les preguntamos.

"¡Jesus!", "¡mi mamá!", "¡El presidente!", nos dicen, y no puedo parar de reirme.

Una noche había un reunion de padres y profesores que duró hasta muy tarde, hasta que todo estuviera oscuro. Edwin, un estudiante, se acercó y me presentó a su hermanito, Papuch. Edwin me parecía cansado y le pregunté si su casa estaba lejos.

"Si," me dijo, "muy lejos."

"¿Cuan lejos?" le pregunté.

"Diez horas," me respondió.

Y esto me toca otra vez. Miro a sus ojos grandes y cafés, a su cara morena y suave. Es un grande distancia para recorrer con pequeños pies.


I haven´t written much about the kids I work with at school since I´ve started my volunteering their in January--most of them six years old, in the first grade. Perhaps it is because they touch me in such a way that it overwhelms me. Their sharing is so wide, so colorful, so deep, and so varied.

They run to school with their older siblings, holding hands, dodging dogs and cars. Then they fall into the classroom, completely out of breath, bending over with exaggeration as if they had just run a marathon.

They do things like touch my back while I am working with another student, then wait with their hand, draw squiggles on my back, then wait again, tug on my shirt, then wait until I finally turn around. They hold up the picture they are drawing. I say, "Good job, keep going", and they go back to their tables and pick up another colored pencil.

They tell me that their mom washes clothes and that it´s their job to put them away, or that their mom is sick so they visit her in her bed, or that their mom is in Spain, working, they don´t know what she does, but they haven´t seen her for a while.

We do a lesson on food. Where does it come from? "Jesus!", "My Mom!", "The President!", they say, and I can´t stop laughing.

Then one night the teachers had a meeting with the parents and it was late and dark when everything was over. Edwin came over to me and introduced me to his little brother, Papooch. Edwin looked tired and I asked him if he had far to walk home. "Ya," he said, "really far."

"How far?" I asked.

"Ten hours" he said.

I´m overwhelmed again as I look into his big brown eyes and study his soft brown face. That´s quite a long way for little feet to go.

Cuando las abuelitas lloran

A veces cuando estoy con las abuelitas empiezan a llorar y me hace preguntar cómo son sus espacios adentro. A menudo me parecen como niños - meciendose con emoción mientras esperan que vengan sus padres, riendose unas de otras por sus cabellos chistosos despues de la ducha, o rogándome que les traiga chicle la próxima vez que venga. Pero cuando lloran así, de repente y tan fuerte, me acuerdo que su piel arrugada indica los años. Un niño llora por lastimarse el dedo, por perder su peluche, o por depertarse de una pesadilla. Las mujeres ansianas lloran por sus corazones que nunca fueron remendados, por sus hijos perdidos, o por sueños que faltaron complir.

"Eres tan bonita," me dicen, "tan alta y joven con cabello largo y ojos verdes."

Y son los ojos verdes que hacen la gran diferencia. Soy la unica allá con ojos verdes. Eso es lo que indica que soy gringa. Lo que indica tal vez nunca experimentaré la tristeza que tienen ellas. Tendré comida para llenar los estomagos de mis hijos, un esposo que no me pegue, y sueños, sueños, sueños. Sueños para llenar el espacio entero en que nos sentamos. Y no solo tengo y tendré sueños, pero tambien la oportunidad de complirlos.



Sometimes when I am with the elderly women they start to cry and it makes me ask myself what the spaces inside them are like. Oftentimes they seem like children to me - rocking back and forth with emotion while they wait for their parents to come get them, laughing at each others` funny hair when they get out of the shower, and begging me to bring them gum the next time I come. But when they cry like that, suddenly and so strongly, I remember that their worn skin really is an indication of the years they have witnessed. A child cries over stubbing their toe, losing their stuffed animal, or waking up from a bad dream. Old women cry over hearts that were never mended, lost children, or dreams that never came to be.

"You are so pretty," they tell me, "so tall and young with long hair and green eyes."

And it is the green eyes that make the big difference. I am the only person at the elderly home with green eyes, which is what indicates that I am a gringa. What indicates that I may never experience the sorrow that they have. I will have food to fill the stomachs of my children, a husband that won`t hit me, and dreams, dreams, dreams. Dreams to fill the entire space we sit in. And not only do I have and will I have dreams, but also the opportunity to realize them.