Mary Janes and a Lesson in Family
Next day, I meet Loving-Rowland in the central jardin. We are walking the two miles outside of Centro to the barrio of Santa Julia to visit the second refuge. Through colorful neighborhoods alive with children and music, and laced with the savory smells of rotisserie chickens, corn tortillas, and pungent spices, we make our way through a rocky, weed-choked gully, kicking up clouds of dust with every step. The gully is a short cut to Casa Hogar Santa Julia, I’m told, and in the rainy season is impassable from swollen floodwaters. The green spaces within the refuge are a welcome surprise. There are flower-filled gardens and trees bursting with fruit; calla lilies, hot pink bougainvillea, oranges and limes. There are play areas and an outdoor larder where a crate of huge, farm-fresh eggs sits in the shade of a stone ledge.
Inside, the communal dining room is pulsating with vibrant energy. An older girl, perhaps eleven or twelve, is grasping the chubby hands of a toddler just learning to walk. She guides the small girl in tiny steps around the room, laughing at each promising step. The toddler’s eyes beam, giggling at her newfound mobility and the encouraging words of her gentle handler. There is music. Girls are cooking and doing dishes. They greet me with beautiful smiles, some offer hugs, a kiss on the cheek. They seem happy. This is a home.
The Mother Superior, or Madre Chuy as she is affectionately known, has graciously agreed to give me an hour or so of her time, with precious little to spare. The Madres of the Casas Hogares, six at Sollano and four at Santa Julia, rise at 5:00 a.m., long before the sun stirs, and if lucky, retire by 11:00 each night. Caring for dozens of children does not allow for short days or idle hands.
I sit alongside Madre Chuy. There is a small gap between us on the donated sofa. Stumbling in, more absorbed with her plastic toy and a snack, a four year old named after sweet desserts, jiggles her way to the sofa. She squirms onto the cushion, nudging up against the Madre, making sure she doesn’t damage the sugar cookie tightly held in her meaty fist. There is a deliberate distance between us. I am a stranger.
Since the age of one, this has been the only home she has ever known. As an infant, she was temporarily “given” to a friend who later refused to give her up when a relative came to claim the child. The friend said “she was a gift.” The family courts are now deciding her fate. She is dressed in bright purples and pinks, a smattering of sequins and other adornments on her tiny top. She is wearing short lacy socks and black patent Mary Janes. She tilts her head toward me, her huge copper penny eyes looking into mine. She whispers something in Spanish, points to the bottom of the toy, and grins. I’m trying to pay respectful attention to the exchange between the Madre and Loving-Rowland, but it is hard to ignore the smiling sweet next to me. She whispers again, tapping the toy with her finger. I bend down and whisper back, she understands me no better than I understand her, but it seems not to matter. She wants me to press something. Crumbs from her cookie drop onto my lap. Finally, she presses on her own releasing a loud, tinny voice from deep inside the toy – she laughs hysterically. I join her. I am aware that her thigh is now brushing against mine.
Today, the Madre is particularly exhausted and it shows on her expressive face. Earlier, she had been invited by the junior high/middle school where four of the Santa Julia girls attend, to observe a special child and parent encounter group being led by a psychologist. When she arrived, the psychologist was asking the parents to stand, face their children, place a hand on their shoulder and tell them their feelings. The Santa Julia girls became angry. They were angry at feeling excluded; that they didn’t have parents to participate in the encounter group and therefore, couldn’t share in the experience.
Madre Chuy had them gather in front of her and put their arms around one another. She then placed her hands on the shoulders of the girls on the outside of the line. She explained that each of them had not only her, but three other mothers at Santa Julia to go to anytime they needed reassurance, a hand to hold, a loving embrace, someone to listen, a shoulder to cry on, a loving heart. They had a family – right there in front of them – and back at Santa Julia.
The four girls, relieved by the conviction of her words were moved to tears. The Madre, seeing the relief on their faces and the tears on their cheeks, also wept.
Gifts in Small Packages
There is no set limit on how long any particular child can stay at the Casas Hogares. Most girls live within the homes for approximately two years; however, many have been there for much longer. One girl, now a woman, has been at Casa Hogar for over 18 years. She is 27. Learning disabilities have prohibited her from assimilating into a world outside of the refuge, and by all accounts, she will live out her days at Santa Julia. It is her home, her safe house, her family.
Some of the girls have gone on to be adopted; others have been reunited with family. Many face uncertain futures. The one constant in their lives is the sense of security and home they have found at Sollano and Santa Julia; that they are loved and cared for – as all children should be. They don’t ask for much and yet they are our greatest hope for the future.
“What they don’t want,” says Loving-Rowland “is to be forgotten or ignored. Yet at the same time, they don’t want to be judged or over-analyzed. They don’t want to be treated as specimens under a microscope.”
The girls of Casa Hogar want nothing more than to be treated like normal children; a chance at a normal life. They want to be like everyone else; to step out into the world having blossomed into healthy, educated young women and with every opportunity possible to live happy, productive lives.
Into the Sun
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