The Wild Child and Real Tears

I remember the first time.  You are running through the halls, clad only in a diaper and t-shirt (slightly too big), chasing your older sisters.  You are two years old.  A little waif.

I'm leading one of the Pre-Kindergarten small groups at the request of the teacher.  "It's a good idea because that way you'll know what to expect next year in Kindergarten.  And you need to know what to expect," she added.  

A sweet face with mischief eyes, hair wild and crazy.  A little grubby in hand-me-downs two sizes too big.  You are fascinated with the puppet I am usingto tell a story.  The bell rings and it's time to move to the next small group.  A few minutes later, the Pre-K teacher walks over with something in her hand.  "You might want these back," she says, handing me my driver's license and debit card."  "Whoa," I think, "She's a pick-pocket too? Have to keep an eye on her, she's a wild one!"  

Then she's in my kindergarten class.  No one drops her off on the first day.  There are no pictures.  A backpack contains few supplies.  She sits restlessly in her seat looking so out of place amongst the first-day-of-school outfits and neatly tied pony tails, crisp shirts and new sneakers that light up.   She's quiet but not for long.

In the space of a week, she elopes (code for running out of the classroom), steals food out backpacks, drinks hand sanitizer (yes!) and is completely unable to stay put, pay attention or do any of the usual things that the average 5 year old can handle.  She does not know her alphabet.  She can not spell her name.  She scribbles on a fresh clean page with a blue crayon while the other kids draw scenic summer holiday pictures and cute self portraits.  "Tell me about your drawing?" I ask.  "It's the sea," she replies.  "I went to Ocean City this summer."

She is a poster child for "It Takes a Village."  Some villages are loaded with loving parents, doting grandparents, cousins, teachers, church pastors, the next door neighbors - all kinds of people.  There will always be someone to go to; someone to listen.  

Other children have small villages.  A handful of folks who see the treasure through all the behaviors and sass - a teacher, a principal, a social worker, a school secretary - not so many - but enough to get you through.  A small village committed to give this little girl a chance.  She'll not have to fight so hard to meet her needs.   She'll discover her wants, too.

During the pandemic, she begins to disappear.  I drive to her house.  I see her hiding, her little face peeking out from behind her sisters while I take a picture.  She runs after the car as I pull away.  "Don't go," she pleads, hanging on to the door handle.  I stop.  She gets in, and we talk while she pretends to drive us to Florida.  On the way, I lose my heart to her.

We have virtual lunch together every day at 12 noon sharp.  In this relaxed setting, I read a story and we talk.  She takes me on "tours" of her bedroom to see her book shelves.  She introduces her pets.  I meet family members.  She shows me her nails, manicured by her oldest sister.   In these moments, I begin to see a child who craves the normal, the typical.  She wants to blend in, instead of stick out like a sore thumb.  

When we finally get back to school, she's in 1st grade.  I don't think I'll see much of her.  We spent too much time apart.  She won't remember.  She bounces through the classroom door.  "This is my cousin," she says, indicating a shadow of a boy, luminously white, a haunted, hunted look in his eyes.  "Take care of him," she admonished before flitting away.  The visits became regular and longer until I am urging her to go to class all the while, wishing I could keep her just a little longer.

Her father appears on the scene.  He wants her.  Tentatively and cautiously, I make contact using the child as a messenger.  "Call me with questions," I urge.  Early the next morning, the Guardian calls, warning me to back off.  "Don't take her away.  She's our baby and we love her," the thin, reedy voice whines like a mosquito buzzing in my ear.  I know this is truth.  They love her.  But it's not enough to just "love" a child.  

It's second grade and I have her back.  This time she will learn to write her name.  She will begin to see that life can be lived differently.   She's friendly child but she has no friends.  She's smart but her chaos prevents her from learning.  She's kind but gives too much.  She has no boundaries.  No sense of herself.  She's completely open to being hurt.  

It's time to dig deeper into the barriers that are keeping her from making academic progress.  We meet with Dad and the Guardian.   It would be amusing if it wasn't so tragic.  They hate each other with an intensity that crackles through the phone lines.  They argue and disagree on everything, but somehow we are able to come together to craft a learning plan for this child.  

But this only addresses her needs, not her wants.  And she wants friends.  There is a blond-hair girl who likes her, thinks she's funny.  I pull her aside, "How about inviting her for a play date after school?" I suggest.  Her face crinkles up with embarassment.   "I'm not allowed to go to her house and she's not allowed in my house.  My mom says she's bad."  

There's another girl, sweet and kind.  "I really like her," she confides, "But my mom won't let her in our house because of what happened."  I probe.  She and the older sister barge in to Sabrina's house uninvited.  "And then the big girl grabbed my baby and dropped her."  I think the baby is a doll.  It must be.   "No," says Sabrina, "She's a real baby and she got hurt on her head and we had to take her to the hospital."  

I feel desperate.  This child needs something ordinary where she can shine.  I walk a group of my girls to after school Cheerleading, and realize this is the answer for a little girl who can't sit still but can  herself  leap fearlessly off window ledges and monkey bars.  

Cheerleading.  

We get her enrolled.  She loves it and the other girls begin to see her.  She starts to make friends.  We head to the local high school basketball game where the Cheerleading Squad will perform. Her Dad comes.  He picks her up and kisses her cheek.   He pats her head and gives her flowers and pushes his way to the front of a throng of parents to take video and pictures, which he posts on social media with great pride.  And I see that this father loves his daughter and my heart warms.

I talk with Dad.  He pours out his anger at a system that will not give him a second chance, his grief that he has let her down and his hope to make up for lost time.  "Who's gonna teach my daughter to be a lady?" he asks.  "Who's gonna give her nice things and spoil her?  There's no one in that foster home to help her."   I look him square in the eyes.  "You are right," I say, "There is no one.  Except you.  It's down to you."  He grinned.  "Yeah, that's what I think too!"   He steps up his visitations.  She arrives at school flashing manicured nails and bedazzled sneakers and beautiful hair-dos.  "My Dad took me to get my hair and nails done, and then he took me clothes shopping," she smiles shyly.  "And you look beautiful," I smile back.  

We are having a class picnic when I hear the sounds of sobbing.   The girl is sitting under a tree, face in her hands, sobbing loudly.  "What's wrong?" I ask gently pulling her hands from her face.  I am expecting to see a flood of tears staining her cheeks.  Her face is dry.  She is hurt - some kids are being mean.   She knows that somewhere in side she is hurt but she doesn't have the tears to show it. 

Her aunt dies of an overdose in the girl's bed.  "I feel sad," she says, simply.  No tears.

Her guardian "mother" dies around Christmas, she feels sad.  No tears.  

Her mother dies of an overdose.  She feels sad, and guilty because she can not cry.  

It's the last day of school.  The whole school is out on the sidewalk, hugging and wishing well for the summer holidays, and banging drums and noise makers and blowing bubbles amid cheers.  She stands in the midst of all this eruption of joy.  She is crying.  Big, fat salty tears rolling down her cheeks.  She buries her head in my stomach and locks her arms around my waist and sobs.  

"What's going on," I ask, tears in my eyes.  

"I don't want to go home.  I want to stay with you."  

And the stark truth hits me hard in the wet spot on my t-shirt, we are her village, her family.  I take a picture of this magical moment and send it to her father.  "Wow, thank you," he replies, "She loves you guys."  A simple message ringing with truth.  Her village loves her and she loves us too.