I wish I could find the words to describe my day, but none seem fitting. It was perhaps one of the most influential days of my life to date. To many, it would be no thing significant. Perhaps a little sad, maybe even uncomfortable, but nothing to be awed over. For me, however, it was a chance to do something I have only ever dreamed of. Helping the poorest of the poor children is certainly no light thing. To explain better, Tuti works as a nutritionist at a elementary school in one of the "vilas" in town. Not quite a favela, but by no means ordinary living, a vila is home to hundreds of starving, diseased, and despaired families.
Our work day started with greeting all the children at the front door as their parents dropped them off. As moms and dads, older brothers and sisters, came and went, the reality of life's ironic jest sank in. After the tenth parent or so dropped their child off, I began to notice a pattern. First, many of the mothers were wearing flip flops with socks. They could not afford to buy real shoes for winter weather. Second, many of the children were wearing clothes too big. They could not afford to buy food to fill their stomachs. And third, their faces. Though they came in all sizes, colors, etc, they all wore the same face. Each was lined with stress, worry, hunger, pain, and despair. It was the face of a person who has seen far too many horrible things in life to have even so much as a shred of hope left. It was the same face that I have seen a hundred times carelessly flipping through the pages of National Geographics magazine. The same face I have watched displayed on those adoption program commercials on television. The same face I have always dreamed of helping. On the other hand, the children were all smiles. As they each would stare at me with those big round eyes, I began to realize that this was probably the best part of their day. For them, school was a place of safety, of hope. For them, school provided food and warmth. Something their stick homes could not. And though they could not possibly know this at their age, school also was a beacon of hope, an opportunity to educate themselves and strive for a better life. Compared to all these traumatic things, I suddenly felt very small.
We spent most of the morning in the kitchen. Tuti was busy charting out weekly meal plans. I could not take my eyes off of how skinny the children were and surprisingly, how little they ate. Towards the end of their lunch, I got permission to mingle amongst the children and take some photos. I am sure none of them had ever seen a camera like mine, much less any camera to begin with. A few braver ones actually approached me though most stayed their distance. One little girl flung her arms around me and gave me a big, wet kiss on the cheek after I took her picture. I was not sure what to say, my Portuguese failed me at that moment. All verbal language failed me. So I spoke through a language we all know best, that of instinct, of body, the language of humanity, and I put my arms around her tight and gave her a kiss on the head. At first, I almost felt ashamed with my fancy new camera out in the midst of all this poverty. It almost felt wrong. But as soon as I took off the lens and held it up to shoot, everything felt right. This is what I am meant to do, I realized. This is what I have always wanted to do- capture stories and record them. Share them with the rest of the world. Make a difference.
It was to be a day of many emotions. There was one girl in particular who was beautiful. It was not her skin, or her hair or smile that made her so, though. In fact, her cheeks were colored with dirt, her hair matted, and her smile hard to find. It was her eyes. Her eyes had this sparkle in them, they had intelligence though she could not be much older than 4 maybe 5. She would stare at me with this look of wonder, of determination. There was something about her that drew me, though I can not say what. I never got the chance to take her picture. Another girl drew attention as well, but from Tuti. She was incredibly skinny and was not eating her lunch. Tuti swept her up and brought her into the makeshift nurse's office to be weighed. Tuti asked the girl to undress and step on the scale. What would have taken anybody else a minute, took this 4 year old what felt like ages. Maybe it only felt long because I was mortified by what I saw beneath her clothes. Skin and bones. Nothing else, no muscle, not even so much as an inch of fat. Her stomach protruded like that of those malnourished kids you see in pictures and videos from Africa. Her clothes lay on the floor in a pile of filth and rags. Suddenly my old tshirt and jeans seemed very expensive. Not long after this, we were interrupted by a rush of people and a cry of help. One of the infants had an epilepsy attack during nap time. As they rushed him out the door to an ambulance, I could see him bubbling at the mouth, eyes all white, body limp (though still alive) in his teacher's arms. I do not know what happened to him after, and probably never will. I do know they were concerned because there was no way to contact his parents- cell phones and landlines are non-existent when you don't have electricity in your home. I also know they spoke in hushed tones, and despite not being able to understand their words exactly, the word "morte" (death) was mentioned several times. Was today to be his last? These are things that will stain my memory forever.
Before calling it a day, we went on a walk around the neighborhood. Two of the kitchen staff girls escorted us. I did not know it at the time, but they lived in this neighborhood. Now I realize why they had no fear or emotion like Tuti and I did. They were immune to the trauma. It was their everyday life, they lived it, bathed in it, breathed it.The nicer houses were made of bricks and clay. Some had roofs, others boards of wood slightly covering for protection. The other homes were made of sticks, old plank boards, and whatever else they had managed to scrape together. A very small percentage had electricity, though most did have bathrooms. I remember one house in particular. Both Tuti and I stopped to share a horrified wonder at the crude attempt of a home. She grabbed my hand and suddenly we connected on a level I have never had with anybody else. (This means a lot to me considering I have struggled with bonding with her due to language barriers. We were finally able to connect simply by reverting to the one language we do share, the same language I mentioned before, humanity.) I have used outhouses larger in size than this house. And more enclosed for that matter as well. To make matters worse, at least ten people live crammed together in it. The use of contraceptives are a thing unheard of there.
Some streets were filled with an eerie dead silence. On other streets you could hear American rap blasting from old stereos as shirtless, meatless, men lounged around, women hung scant clothes to be dried, and children played in the streets. Dogs were everywhere. It reminded me of something out of a movie, but of course, reality is always ten times worse. But all streets, surprisingly enough, were filled with life. Whether it was a little weather worn garden gnome in front of the house, or a barbie doll strung on the fence, a painted flower pot, a grandma sitting in front of the house, a child screaming from inside, each and every home had some life to it. They did their best to persevere. They tried to build a "homey" environment for their children. They tried to shed some light in the dark corners of their life. To have determination like that takes strength, it takes heart. They may not succeed on levels you and I see fit, or to standards we hold, but they take what they do have and they try and make something of it. They are fighters. On my travels, I have met many prosperous, successful people. But I have never seen the kind of people that I saw in the villa today. They lived the human life in its most raw form. Bound by the chains of poverty, trauma, and despair, they were free of greed, power, and corruption.
It truly was just God and them on the streets.
