I was volunteering last night for a program the Lexington Art League is doing with Lexington Habitat for Humanity. I'm pretty sure both organizations LOVE me because I have been "that drunk dancing girl" at events both have hosted. (Remember that, Sarah? What a blast!)
Anyway, the thing last night was for kids of adults who are going to get homes. While the homeowners are learning about budgeting and home maintenance and stuff like that, the kids get to come and make art for a little while. There were probably a dozen kids in the class, maybe more, all different ages. It turns out that a lot of them are Congo refugees... and knowing that fact should have told me to keep my mouth shut. Tightly.
But I didn't. I just couldn't help it. They were just too cute and too fun and too charming, and I was all gaga for their long eyelashes and extraordinary names. And then it started.
I was sitting next to one little boy, 5 years old, old enough to have memories of what made his family flee Congo, and he was smiling and having a great time. So what do I say?
"Is this torture or what?"
Really, Amber?!! Torture!! What is wrong with you?!!
Even with a creepy wink tacked onto my delivery, even with the American-infused sarcasm mingling with the words, it was so... so... ugh. An ugh made worse by the silence that fell over the entire room at just the right moment to guarantee that everyone heard the word torture.
I wish I could say things got better from there and that I was able to use my mind/mouth filter more effectively as the night went on, but that'd be a lie.
I watched them draw planes and trucks and helicopters and stoplights and wondered how much their recent refugee relocation effort influenced their art and how much of it had more to do with their age and gender than their life experience. I thought about these things, silently in my head, but that internal reflection evaporated the minute I fell into the trap of interaction.
As the class was winding down, we packed up the art supplies and had to fill the last few minutes with an activity of some kind. The instructor suggested we have a staring contest, and I decided to add some enthusiasm and intensity to the event by providing commentary.
I'm pretty sure I said the word WAR about 29 times. And now, instead of art class, 13 young refugees need therapy for PTSD, sparked by a volunteer with a defective filtering mechanism.
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4 comments:
What a weird coincidence! There is a family right down the street from us who are Congo refugees and are trying to get a home from Habitat. They have 3 kids who are like 9, 7, and 5 and attend Jonah's school. I ADORE them. In the summer they are at our house like every day and I've even babysat them a couple of times for their parents. From what I gather, the kids, especially the younger two, don't remember a whole lot. I think they moved around a lot in Africa before they even got here. Don't be too hard on yourself. You're doing a wonderful thing!
I've been trying to block that night of dancing out of my memory for years.
I agree with Lisa...don't be hard on yourself. You are doing something good!
-kristin
HA HA HA HA! Oh Amber, part of your charm is putting yo foot in your mouth. Do you remember the time I just had nose surgery and you thought it would be best to punch me in the nose afterwards? LOL! Those kids will get over it, besides we all have done it. You just have a great way of telling about it. That is why we love you.
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