My Right Hand Man

You walk in and you are greeted, and by greeted, I mean viciously attacked by a beige, short haired, aggressive dog named Scott. As you walk, your feet crunching against the gravel, your eyes meet a beautiful grey chapel that sits just in the center of the entrance. You look left and you see a huge open air space, with red brick buildings that outline a green lush area full of bushes and bustling trees with intermitted brick patio type flooring. You see the huge green, well yellowish colored field, connected to two cement “canchas” with soccer goals in the distance.  It’s overwhelmingly calm and very aesthetically pleasing. As you breathe in this seemingly peaceful environment, you are suddenly bombarded. Bombarded by eighty boys. Eighty boys between the ages of twelve and eighteen. Your personal space is no longer there, and these boys are in your face. Hugging you, shaking your hand, holding your arm. You are so deeply surrounded, that the initial breathe you took is completely gone and you may even be struggling for air.  You try to see the bigger picture and you are scared. There are three boys wrestling in one corner, barraging one another with their fists. One boy staring straight at you holding a rusted, charcoal grey machete. You look to your left and you are arm and arm with a boy named Truen who is five foot eight, and has the most valiant, white teethed smile you can imagine.  He is wearing a white t-shirt with dirt stains streaked throughout and a pair of dirty white washed jeans.  On his feet he is wearing one sneaker, which has a hole exposing his big toe and one broken flip flop sandal. You look to your right and you are being pulled in the other direction by a smaller, pudgy light skinned boy name Luis, who cannot stop saying “oye Gringa!!” He too is in a white t-shirt, also wearing mismatched shoes. You stop in your tracks and try to understand what everyone is saying, and in the center of sheer chaos, you feel the greatest sense of joy you have ever experienced because you know no one, but they make it clear. Each boy makes it clear through their first powerful God-filled gaze that they need you. It doesn’t matter who you are. You are there, you see them and they need you. Welcome to “Proyecto Salisiano, Chicos de la Calle”, The Silesian Project for Street Boys. My home and my nightmare for 12 months.

 

I walked into the “taller” or workshop and the head Carpenter, Marco just glared at me. A woman in the workshop was laughable, and I still had not yet won him over; yet I walked in and immediately made my presence clear. “Que hay chicos!”—“Whats up boys!” Right away, my right hand man called me over. In his raspy, frog-like voice he yelled, “Gringa Loca, ven por aca”—“Crazy white girl, come over here” Chiri, aka Chuck Norris was standing next to a work bench. He barely saw over it—fifteen years old, five feet three inches on a good day. His hair spiked up making him look exactly like sonic the hedgehog. His already tiny brown eyes were squinted into slits looking directly at me; glimmering in the small amount of light that shone through the room.  His nose pointing up, the birthmark on the top of his cheek bone just beneathe his left eye was raised from his smile; his unexplainable smile. It sat across his face, with his white teeth, which had small gaps in-between them, and allowed for anyone to see at first glance that he was someone special. Someone to be reckoned with. I excitedly skipped over and gave him a giant bear hug. I encompassed all of his bony small body. “Oye, que eres loca? Dejame!!”—“What are you crazy? Let me go.” The grin still slapped across his face.

Chiri began sanding a piece of wood. He was covered in wood dust, making his skin an ashy mix of beige and caramel. He shoved a piece of wood and sandpaper in my hand. “Senorita, si eres carpentera tienes que trabajar, no seas baga”—“Miss, if you are a carpenter  you have to work, don’t be lazy.” As usual, I began to sand the piece of wood. This is how conversation always began. Some days, for the whole hour before lunch, the two of us could sit there in silence. Some days we sat there and did not stop talking. Some days the room filled with our loud voices. Other days with a quiet whisper as he shared his life’s realities. But no matter what, this boy could make any living thing laugh. He was one of the smallest boys in the shelter, but his “anima” and personality made him one of the biggest and one of the most well-liked kids in the room. Our relationship is often what helped me to survive amidst the violence, chaos, and disrespect that stems from so many issues, problems, and needs of eighty young boys all put into one place.

On this one particular day, we talked briefly about his time at the shelter. Chiri spent almost his entire life there. His older brother also went through the project. He touched on his mother. Each time he spoke, even when his eyes drooped when describing a particular hardship, If his mother was mentioned, they immediately perked up and he smiled. He showed his gratitude for her without saying anything. After talking back and forth for a while,  I turned to him and asked “Porque estas aqui?”—“Why are you here?” He quickly responded, blurting out in anger. “ No soy chico de la calle!”—“I am not a street boy!” I shuttered, and was unsure if I had offended him. I slowly, began to open and close my mouth, taking deep breathes, not sure what to say. Before I could say another word, he began to explain. “Es que, somos pobres. Mi mami no nos puede dar todos. Cosas son difícil para nosotros. Y por eso, estoy aquí. Pero yo tengo familia y casa y por eso estoy orgulloso.” –“ It’s that, we are poor. My mom cannot give us everything. Things are hard for us. So, that’s why I am here. But I have a family and a house, and  I am proud of that.” I quickly understood. There was a drastic difference in his mind, and it was the common thought process of all the boys.  There was a line that separated them. Made them different from one another. Some kids were there because they had been recruited; they had already been living on the streets, working on the streets. Some had no homes. Some had no families. Some were abandoned. Then, there were other kids who were there for prevention purposes. They were at risk. They had families; some good, some bad. But they had families or homes that could not provide for them. That needed more assistance, like Chiri. This moment brought me to a realization. I became more aware of one of the millions of dynamics that took place in this environment. I became more conscious of what the kids said to one another and how things were perceived. This was one of the many moments where one of the boys was more of a teacher and mentor to me, than I could ever be to him.

The shelter was a place of darkness. A place of darkness that also shone some of the brightest light in the world. So many personalities, stories, backgrounds woven into this fabric that was their home. For some, their home all the time, for others their home during the five days of the week, and for other their home during school days. Whatever their situations were, there was so much I had to learn there. So much I had to learn in regards to my role as a female mentor and teacher. My role as a listener. My role as a learner. Chiri, although 7 years younger than me, took me under his wing. He changed my life each and every day through our conversation, and broke my heart through his stories; and at times with his actions.  He was one of the first young men to put their trust in me. In doing so, he gave me the best lesson I could have asked for. Through his openness and directness, he was subconsciously guiding me to better places of understanding. Understanding the violent behaviors the boys encountered and demonstrated. The lies and deception that they faced and told. The cruelty they witnessed and portrayed. But most importantly, their need to be seen. Their need for patience. Their need for laughter. Their need for love. Their need for someone to continue to shine light on their darkness; to guide them to see and believe in their own potential.