The minature pink buckets were perfectly designed for holding crayons. I cannot begin to guess what their real purpose might be but it seemed they were designed for us. There was a little black handle which made it convenient for passing (though I noticed today that no one actually did) and the lids made them perfect for travel.
The ride to the Center was cool and energizing. There is nothing better than the anticipation of making art. I had brought along a bunch of plastic and foam tracers in the form of geometric shapes. I thought we could start there. I still haven't decided if I should be teaching art, merely providing an environment in which it can happen or something betwen the two.
The little kids came quickly enough and found seats together. Over the hour and half I was there, the living area filled with older kids as well. Most of them traced the shapes and colored them in, as requested. A few were able to turn the shapes into something and some even went freestyle. I maneuvered around the room in my fashion, asking kids about their drawings and inviting them to dream. It is difficult for them, I see, this dreaming part. American kids would be so brash and bold, laying out all the plans for how BIG their lives would be. "And THIS will be my house, and here is my car, and I will have two dogs....."
One boy drew a guitar and when asked if it would be him playing it, he shook his head. Nope, not me. "Then you will be the singer, hey?" I asked. He acquiesced but it seemed more in an effort to please me than something he really believed. I figure they've got to be able to see it before they feel like going to acheive it.
I refused to allow myself to take pictures this day, though my hands were really aching to. I sat and watched the children drawing, behaving as children. Some fought over materials. There was a bit of hiding and hoarding. But mostly, they were concentrating on their drawings with effort and attention. I listened to Nabih's distinct laughter as two boys found some amusement in teasing him.
One thought kept washing over me as I looked out across a sea of big smiles and bright eyes and curled up legs and wasting limbs. These are the throwaways. I was sitting in this room filled with such energy and beauty and I knew that in their society they are not considered worthwhile. The worst part is that everything I saw struck my Western eyes as temporary and irrelevant. Their disabilities hardly seemed debilitating and in a western world, they would be hardly so. Or maybe my eyes cannot see the way they used to. Africa has certainly colored my ideas about what is and is no longer important.
Leaving there, I was ready once again to go anywhere but home. My hands were so hungry to hold a camera, a real camera and everywhere I turned my eyes saw the frame of a shot. This is a new obsession for me, or perhaps an old one gaining strength. The equipment I have does no longer allow for the things I really see.
And the image I brought home with me was of the family still camped out in the driveway. I've a feeling I will be marking my visits to the center by the progress of this woman and her children. She was sitting despondently with her head in her hands when I drove up. Laundry was scattered out upon the weeds, drying. Her children sat behind her in a row, equally depressed. No one moved. They looked much the same when I left. It is a desperate situation. Where should the homeless go? There are no social services to step in and provide a safety net. There is no government aid to make sure the children are fed. She is living in a driveway with her children and the entire neighborhood passes by her each day. Everyone sees them, but what is to be done? I seriously considered of giving her a hundred dollar bill I happened to have in my bag. It seemed a like a ridiculously absurd amount of money and somehow not enough all at the same time.
I kept thinking about the more, the real, the substantial change she needed. I am no longer wondering why her and what good is helping just one? I am now thinking, we crossed paths for a reason and how can I best socially serve? I have to do something. Because while I am now sheltered and warm, bathed in artifical lights in my pocket of western world, she still sits outside. Hungry and cold, wrapping her children in thin blankets and huddling around a small fire. The mother in me knows how the mother in her is slowly dying.
