It’s been a while since I had written about my life in the Philippines. And I wasn’t sure exactly what to write about. It’s hard to put into words some of the thoughts and feelings that I have.
I remember one meeting I had with Pastor Bill. (For those of you that don’t know, I work for Metro World Child under Pastor Bill Wilson) I was crying as usual, and although I’ve gotten a lot more tough since this journey began, Pastor Bill just has this way of bringing the tears out of me. He jokingly called it his gift when I complained about how I always cry when I’m with him. But in that specific meeting, I remember him saying to me. “You’re very emotional. I am too. And you’re going to have to be careful not to let that control you. But watch out for the other extreme too.” And at staff meeting once, he talked about how easy it is to get hardened when you are confronted with certain terrible truths all the time. I honestly thought I knew what he was talking about when I lived in New York, but here I understand it on a different level. Whether it’s because of where I am, or the number of years I’ve been doing this, I’m not sure. But either way, I notice myself at times choosing to be numb to a situation, and having to pull myself out of it.
And last Sunday, I had a moment. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was just… a moment.
We were picking up our workers for an overnight outing. We had picked up from three of the four sites, and the only one we had left was from Smokey Mountain the garbage dump where we do Sidewalk Sunday School every week.
But the one worker that was coming for the outing wasn’t at the gas station right outside of Smokey where we were supposed to meet her. So Darwin, one of the other staff went to go get her, jogging off, and calling out “I’ll be back in about 10 minutes.” So there I was at a gas station with 15 workers. We were having a good time just talking and laughing. It was hot of course, so I told them they could keep the back door to the van open. And from the front I see this kid maybe 9 or 10 years old walking up to the back of the van. I’m sure he was curious to see why so many kids were in the back of this vehicle in the middle of the “ghetto”. And as he got closer, it was obvious that he had been scavenging through the trash.
One thing I didn’t really understand until I got here, is that even within squatter areas, there are the poor, and then there are the really poor. They look different, dress different, act different… And there is a sort of discrimination between the people living in the squatter areas. And this kid was one of those really poor ones. Super dark, super dirty. Wearing shorts way too big for him tied up only by a rope obviously taken out of the trash. Those are the kind of kids that come to our site. But even when they come, some of them linger at the entrance not sure if they’re allowed to come when they are so dirty until they see that there are others just like them having fun and playing with us. I had never seen this particular boy, but I figured he came over to ask for change.
As a general rule, we never give the street kids money. If they get to keep it, they don’t usually use it for good. But more often than not, they don’t even get to keep it, but have to give it to some ring leader. So we just, don’t. All of “my” kids in the van are wearing their “Sunday best”, to go on this outing. But one boy in the back of my van who we picked up at one of our other sites, but is from Smokey Mountain, just shrunk into the back trying to disappear. I’m fairly certain he knew that kid who had come up to our van. Maybe they have scavenged together in the past, played together, eaten together. Enrico, my boy, would have only been a few years older than him.
So this boy, whom I don’t even know the name of, kept talking to the kids in the back until he got in trouble by some random stranger in the parking lot. At this point, I interjected something and he must have noticed me, because he came around to my side of the van and climbed up onto the wheel so that he would be eye level with me. And that’s when I saw his eyes. They were completely glazed over, and he was high off of who knows what. Probably paint thinner. It’s cheap. He had a plastic bag that he was huffing it from. And he angrily asked me for change, to which I, as kindly as I could, said no. My kids in the back of the van are yelling at him to stop talking to me, and I’m trying to hush them, but this boy was getting so aggressive in his asking that I basically had to gently push him off the tire for fear he was going to try to come in.
Once he was down, he went to the back again, but I told the kids to close the door. I was starting to sense that something bad could happen, and I didn’t want anyone getting hurt. I’ve seen enough people high to know that they are stronger than normally possible. But I don’t know what the kids said to him that made him so angry because the next thing I know, he’s trying to come to the front of the van again towards me, as angry as can be. But before you knew it, one of the teens, Ivan, a 13 year old from one of our sites had jumped out of the van and was blocking this boys way with his body. I had never seen Ivan look so angry before that I was afraid he was going to hurt this kid. I had not realized how protective Ivan was, or how, in a way, it was so normal to him that he would have to protect the people he was with from… a child. I then quickly got out of the van and told Ivan to get back in the car. I went around quickly, running after the boy who now had a concrete rock bigger than my fist aiming to throw it at the van or me, I’m not sure. My teens are yelling at me to walk away, in a calm but sure way, I’m telling the teens to stay in the van, and trying to slowly walk towards this boy who has suddenly turned violent. I kept asking, “What’s your name?” To which he kept responding angrily “Give me change!” “What’s your name, buddy?” “Give me change!” Until I had gotten close enough to grab the rock. It was at that point that Darwin came back, spoke to the kid for a second, and he ran off.
But all I could think about were his eyes. But as he refused to get off the back of the van as we were driving away, I had to get out to force him down for his own safety. And as he’s backing away, he kept yelling at me in English, and giving me the finger, “F*** you! F*** you!” Oh but his eyes… And if I had had any food at all with me, I would have given it all to him, but I had nothing.
His eyes… Such hatred, and so, so high. And he was 11 at the oldest. Maybe 12, but doubtful.
I think one of my first posts since I got to the Philippines was about the boys rehab we volunteered in. Some of those boys were his age, so it’s not that I didn’t know that kids that age got high. But it is so different to have that knowledge in your head, and seeing it with your own eyes.
I’ve tried to find him since, with no luck. But hopefully soon, I’ll be able to find him. I want to give him a hug, and give him food, and tell him there’s someone that loves him. And maybe this time, he won’t be high so he’ll understand what I’m trying to tell him. I hope so. I pray so. Because he is why I’m here. He is why I do what I do. To be able to change the eyes filled with hate to eyes filled with the knowledge that he is loved.