what does it mean when the police say they will arrest you if you do not cease to converse with the children living on the streets?
it means …
eden’s trees are getting thin;
the snake poisons the heal as it is crushed,
the herbs are sweet and wine runs bitter,
the samaritan walks past,
the labourers are paid for their hours,
the vineyard is trampled,
there are no wedding garments to be had,
the baskets are empty,
the son is in prison,
the christ is drowning,
the dead are rising from the sea.
There is a boy on the streets that is also a girl.
He grew up with a father that preferred his sister over him, where he was abused and eventually ran away. He was in a home for street boys for some time and there his homosexuality began to surface. The suggestion was made that he go to a different home where this would be better accepted as his conduct was bothering the others who participated in this program. This was an offense and again he made his way to the streets. He left home young. Now he is 17 and has lived a life that is hardly a life. He dresses up as he feels, like a young woman, and to survive he does what so many young girls on the streets do – he sells his body.
He tells us how he has been beaten, stabbed and horribly insulted for who he is. The weight on this young mans shoulders is incredible and bearing it in a country so full of discrimination makes it even worse. What is sad, though, is how little help he has. He tells us of the one time he can recall feeling loved and cared for. It was with a psychologist at the boys home mentioned. We have been able to contact this psychologist who is excited to come out with us some time and sit down with our young friend.
What is wrong with people? This is a question I am sure many have asked about this boy that is also a girl. I am not asking the question about him, though. I am asking the question about the people who are asking the same about him, about those who have abused him, about his father, about those who want to help kids in need but pass over this boy for their own discrimination.
The greatest thing about God, as was so evident in the life of Christ, is that what is considered is the inside – not the outside. Discrimination that leads to injustice is evil, it is a sin, it is ugly. It is not only found in the police that treat the street kids like waste, or the clients who abuse our young friend for dressing as he feels, it is found in every heart that sees one as better than another, one more worthy of another.
What is the difference
Between the rich and the poor?
Between the addict and the pastor?
Between the sinner and the saint?
Between the Christian and the Buddhist?
Between a boy and a girl?
You.
When the strong wind comes you can find shelter, stand your ground and marvel at its strength upon your face, or you can let it pick you up and carry you where it will. Life is full of pushes and pulls, but to marvel at these is a mistake. This is to marvel at the servant carrying out the king’s command.
A seed is carried, is planted, grows and bears fruit
in its passivity rather than its activity;
when you are rooted firmly,
letting go never means falling.
Last night was no different than others. The three of us hopped in a taxi-trufi and headed down to the bus terminal. The wall that fences in the terminal on Ayacucho near its south entrance is a hangout spot for a group of girls that call that streets or any number of cheap, shady rentals “home”. This is where they congregate, sniff their clefa and pains away and sell their bodies to ensure another days’ bread and glue.
We meet up with two of our friends, already quite high, and fall easily into conversation. Generally, people walk by these girls thinking along two lines. One, that they are dangerous and to be avoided, or two, that they are worthless and to be abused. The truth is, they are beautiful and to be loved. We talk about their children. One is 27 years old; she has a 3-year-old daughter living with the child’s Godparents and a 1-year-old son stay-ing at the cities largest baby home. The other is 15, and her 3-year-old son is at the same home as the other boy. We talk about trying to work out a visit. Neither of our friends has seen their children in a long time. We can understand both sides of the situation; most people only see the one. Of course these gals are not fit to care for their children, and of course their habits put their children at risk, but then they are the mothers and have feelings for their kids and long to see them and know that they are doing all right.
We also talk about less serious things. How skinny one of them is, about bust and butt implants, the festival of Urkupiña that is currently under-way, and why all men are bad (at this point I insist that some of us have merit and they in turn offer males a 20% approval rating – much better than their initial 0%!).
Nearby, sitting down about five feet from us, is a young girl. I would guess she is around 14, though it is very hard to tell. She is dressed in a pink tracksuit, hair falling just past her shoulder, pretty. I would guess from the look of her she has not been on the streets the years that those around her have, but that she is here, at the terminal, tells of exactly how much she has seen and how deep she really is in this life. We notice her, she seems to be listening to our talk with our friend, perhaps interested, per-haps wanting to talk; before we approach her, however, she moves to be with another group of girls and continues to inhale her escape from the night that will follow. A man nears this group. He is unkempt, dirty, his fly is unzipped and it is clear from his approach what it is he is looking for. There are several girls sitting there, maybe 5, and none are as young and innocent looking as the girl in pink. A transvestite approaches him to offer his services – ironically he looks with disgust as the young man in drag, as if what he is thinking is pure. He speaks to the girl, and for an offer of what is likely a very meager amount of money, perhaps the equivalent of $3, she is purchased for a spell, her dignity sold for a bit of bread and more of the glue that helps her escape the humiliation she is walking towards once again. I am full of emotion. Violence fills my heart and I wonder if I could catch up to her and offer her more money just to get her away from this pervert. I stay put – frozen in my impotence.
We leave shortly after to make the return trip home. One the way we walk past a family that is returning from a party of sorts. The mother and fa-ther are obviously very drunk, and as the mother, who is heavy set, wa-vers from side to side in her bright pink dance costume, we notice a little object dangling from her hand. Only it is not an object at all, it is a boy, somewhere between 1 and 2 years old, trying desperately on his newly functioning legs to keep up with this staggering woman who appears dan-gerously close to falling upon his little body. Again, impotent, we stare in anger.
These stories are too common here. The question that rings in our hearts again and again is the obvious one – what can we do? It is easiest to sug-gest that we can do nothing but pray, or hope the police of government do something. Of course, the police were when this 14 year old girl was rented for the night and were there when these parents stumbled drunk with their poor child in tow and they did nothing. The government, well, it has so many things facing it and so little money to deal with them that it is hard to imagine them doing much more.
The truth is, there are resources here, there are people here able to help. What we lack is funds, the compassion of people from places where money does seem to grow on trees. I confess, this is a rant, but it is a rant trig-gered by a broken heart. I have seen what a little bit of cash can do – it can provide what is needed to take a broken life and give it hope, an abused child and fill her with love. When will those of us who come from backgrounds overflowing with wealth stop thinking about ourselves? When will we stop giving the extra and start actually giving sacrificially? Charitable giving as it is presently shows exactly how shameful the human species truly is; love does not mean giving a little to ease the conscience, it means what Jesus told the rich young man to do – go, sell everything you have, and give it to the poor, then come and follow me. Salvation in present day churches has generally grown cheap. We re-write this story and have Jesus tell the young man to give up the riches “in his heart”. But that isn’t how it happened. Jesus did not ask the young man to say a prayer and that just with belief he would become his follower – he told him to do something, and when he didn’t, he had no choice but to walk away, head down.
I have this mountain imagery plaguing me of late. The picture is essentially of a grand mountain rising up into the mist, within which God dwells. Scarred up the face of the mountain are paths leading upwards, rarely, yet at times, converging.
The source of my frustration is Truth.
reminded by the rejected now wondering what, if anything, has altered, but words and the circle and something someone once called time.
things seem to be like that, at least, and stability depends on the foundation which depends on what is around it and what is upon it. water can be firmer than cement under the right conditions; usually it is wet.
a simple note, word, look can make the scene. today i wonder if perhaps i have played something sour and the rejected has made me the rejector.
