Señorita!

“Señorita! Señorita! Where are you from? Señorita, what color are your eyes? Do you speak English? Señorita! I can say ‘puuuurrple!’ Are you Evangelical Señorita?” I fielded similar questions for an entire afternoon, enjoying the curiosity and interest of a group of local children and noting that I’ve never felt so popular.

The group of fifteen children are part of el Colectivo Tamar, the support group developed by Paz y Esperanza for children who have experienced sexual abuse. The children, along with seven chaperones including myself, participated in an outdoor retreat Saturday afternoon. We piled into a van to drive to the rural town of Limon Pampa, where we spread out on an open field in a deep-set valley enveloped by mountains.

We played get-to-know-you games and volleyball, competed in jump-rope competitions and relay races. To escape the intense sun, we took several breaks under the one existing tree to share soda, candy, budin (pudding cake) and empanadas. The children appeared to be well-adjusted and carefree. I nearly forgot about the circumstances they are accustomed to – poverty, violence, neglect.

I suddenly remembered the reality of their lives when I caught a glimpse of one of the girls devouring her piece of cake as if it was her last meal. The others patiently ate while chatting with friends, although when offered more food, they too packed away extra helpings for their siblings and parents. The hungry little girl later found an orange and stuffed giant slices, three and a time, into her mouth. I later wondered if the volunteers had brought extra fruit for her.

When no one came to pick her up at the office, my co-worker and I accompanied her in a taxi to her neighborhood, the streets unpaved and full of bolders. We dropped her off at the base of a steep cliff, with an endless stone staircase. It was then that I realized she was the girl whose house I visited last week. This was the girl who lives on small helpings of rice and potatoes, whose parents abandoned her and whose grandfather seems incapable of caring for her.

My co-worker and I watched her climb the stairs, her little backpack bouncing up and down as she clutched the stuffed teddy bear she and the others received during the retreat. I felt like the mother who stands at the street corner, waving at the giant school bus taking her little one off to her first day of kindergarten – however , this farewell lacked any assurance and sense of pride.

This little girl had stuck by my side most of the afternoon, searching for my hand to hold, someone to lean on. I was unsure how to handle her neediness. I was somehow frightened by her. As I watched her motions, I was stunned and unable to give her the affection I so easily give other children.

I now realize that my fear was a reaction to the overwhelming presence of G-d - sitting under the tree with her shoulders embedded into my side, waiting in the office and sharing the back seat of a taxi. I can appreciate the presence of G-d in nature, in music, in friendship. But when G-d visits me in the form of a fiercely quiet child, I am shaken to the core...blinded by what is real.

When I meet this little girl again, during another afternoon of fun and games at Christmas time, I will recognize the presence of G-d and will not run away. Instead I will embrace her, ten-years old, hungry but full of laughter and quite possibly unaware of any other way of living.