“There are two of them about ten feet away watching us.”
“It’s a batir, Chi,” Pedro gurgles. “They beat me over the head with their clubs. Because I was drunk.”
He attempts to lift up his head to give me eye contact. His neck goes into a spasm and his head jerks downward. “Because it’s a batir,” Pedro says, his voice clogged by agony. “It’s a batir; I live on the streets.”
Pedro refuses to go to the hospital, so I examine him on the street. I palpate his head to determine if any portions of his skull have detached. He sees clearly and responds appropriately. Despite his yelps of pain, it appears that he suffered no severe neurological damage. But his intracranial bleeding could quickly intensify and kill him. I clean his head with water, peroxide, and antibiotic cream. I implore him to go to the hospital. He refuses again.
Demonstrations of open defiance, however slight, are some of the only ways street children can express their dignity and power. They refuse to let go of their defiance; it is one of the few remaining aspects of their lives that is both human and completely under their own control. They are shouting fervently to society, “I am not a dog that you can abuse at your whim. I am a person.”
“Hey, Chi,” says Pedro as I walk off.
“Yes?” I turn around.
“Thank you.” He twists his head in an uncomfortable angle to give me eye contact for the first time. Despite the heavy bleeding, I am confident that Pedro will survive this beating and those to come. I hope that I am right.
“You’re welcome, Pedro. You’re welcome.” I walk a few steps, turn around, and add, “Please make sure Daniela watches you carefully tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Several days later, I walk around Plaza San Francisco, and in one corner of the plaza, I spot Pedro and Daniela sitting among a group of older drunk men. Why am I not surprised that Pedro seems to be nursing a severely bruised right leg?
“What happened to your leg?” I ask him.
“Violence,” he states—the one-word answer to a variety of questions. “They wanted my money.”
“Did you give it to them?”
“I told them to f— off.”
“That was really smart. What did they do after that?”
“They pounded my leg and took my money.” He looks down at his leg, remembering the beating.
“Pedro,” I say, restraining my exasperation, “do you enjoy bringing violence upon yourself?”
“No,” he says. “But they can’t break me. They may see me as a worthless street boy, but I am worthy of respect. I have pride.”
“Yes, I agree that you are worthy,” I say, “but now you are crippled and worthy.”
His drunken friends laugh without reservation. “Yes, we have our crippled Pedro, but he’s a man! Hear him roar!”
“He’s stupid,” Daniela retorts. “Ever since he got his head beaten, he has lost a few of his marbles.”
“And he only started with a few to begin with!” a drunk man chimes in. “Baahh! Baahhaaaa! Baaahhaaa!” the men laugh.
“I am a man with rights,” Pedro contests. “You may laugh, but I know that I am right. They can beat me all they want, but I will not be broken!” He sticks out his chest as much as he can without moving his outstretched leg.
“Okay, Che Guevara, I respect you. The only thing that is broken is your leg.”
“It is?!”
“Yes. How did you not know?”
“Oh, Dr. Chi. The beauty of alcohol. You drink until you can’t feel!”
“You need to go to the hospital.”
“No. No hospital. I don’t go to hospitals.”
“You need to go to the hospital,” Daniela says flatly.
“No.” He lashes out with his arms. “You can take care of me, Dr. Chi.”
“No, I can’t. You will need a cast. I can’t do that here.”
“Do whatever you can.”
“The two of you make my job so difficult sometimes. Okay”— I point at three of the drunkards—“Larry, Curly, and Moe in the peanut gallery, find me some cardboard boxes.”
“Yes sir, boss. We are on our way, boss.” Ten minutes later the young men bring back several boxes. I pull the cardboard apart and fold the sides longitudinally to form hard planks. I show Pedro the splint. “You see how hard this is? Try to break it with your hand.”
Pedro attempts to punch through the accordion cardboard splint. “Oww!”
“I guess your drinking doesn’t take away all the pain.”
I wrap the splint around each side of his leg and tape the leg to the splint tightly, using four feet of surgical tape.
“Hey,” says Pedro, finally realizing this: “I can’t move my leg.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Oh. Okay.” Pedro smiles. “Thanks!”
“And the next time you run into trouble”—I stand up and wipe my hands—“will you please call me first?”
Over the next ten days, Pedro lies on the pavement of Plaza San Francisco as Daniela brings him food and medicine for his pain. She takes care of him through the day and the night. During this time he makes several attempts to walk around, but she forces him to rest his leg. This is not the best beginning to the epilogue to Maria’s life, but I can tell Daniela now considers her actions seriously before she acts. She conscientiously cares for Pedro. She leaves Natalia with Grandmother, who treats Natalia better than she ever treated Daniela.
On the streets, the struggle of life versus death is paralleled by the struggle of the desire to live against the desire to die. The death of Maria could have killed Daniela. But Maria’s death, and the way we all handled it, has only strengthened Daniela’s love of life—and the living.
22
Merry Christmas
11 p.m., December 23, 1997;
Plaza San Francisco
Ragged Christmas gift wrap skirts across the plaza like red and green rats. Stalls line the plaza, with vendors selling Nativity scenes and steroid-pumped action figures. ’Tis the season to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus by selling Christmas trinkets in order to survive, commercializing Jesus so that food can be placed on the table. Is that so wrong? Give me the bowl instead of the soul, no?
“Joven. Joven.” A cholita waves at me. “Come here. Do you want a three-gallon water gun that can shoot thirty yards? Guaranteed! You look like a good, caring father wanting to buy a gift for your son.”
“I’m sorry, but I am not married and I do not have children.”
A mustached man bellows over to me, “How about this Nativity scene with a beautiful baby Jesus and real hay? You seem like a devout Christian.”
“No, thank you.”
I turn away and make eye contact with a large young woman walking carefully down the steps, one step at a time. She carries a plastic meshed bag across her right forearm, and a checkerboard apron accentuates her pear-shaped figure. I have not seen her face in nearly one month. She has aged a couple of years since that time. It is Daniela.
“Hello, Daniela,” I say to her.
“Hello,” she responds in a despondent voice.
We have developed a special bond since Maria died. She can now show emotion around me.
“What are you doing these days?” I ask her, nodding at her plastic bag.
“Selling Christmas cards,” she says.
“Can I see them?”
“Sure.” She hands me three cards. “You see the nice quality of the paper? On the front is the baby Jesus lying in the manger with a star hanging up high in the sky.”
“You are a good salesperson, aren’t you?”
“It is all about the presentation,” she informs me.
“How’s business?” I ask.
“Terrible.” The despondent voice comes back.
“Why?”
“Competition is fierce this season. The other vendors have nicer cards and sell them for a cheaper price.”
“Are you making enough money to survive?”
“You know
. You make do. I still have enough money to feed myself and Natalia.”
“Hmmm,” I ponder.
“How can I compete?” she asks me.
The obvious answer is to get better cards and put some of the other street children out of business. Maybe then you will make two dollars a day, Daniela.
“I purchase them in bulk from vendors uptown,” she tells me. “I wish I could get a better price, but times are tough right now.”
“How did you come up with the idea of selling Christmas cards?”
“I don’t know. It just seemed like a good idea. More profits than selling gum or juice. There are so many shoe shiners that it is hard to earn a living in that business. Not many people were selling Christmas cards three weeks ago. But now everyone is.”
“What are you going to do after Christmas?”
“I don’t know.” She purses her lips. “Find something else to sell, I guess.”
“Where are you living now?”
“On the streets,” says Daniela. “But Natalia is staying with my mother. I am not welcome in the home. Besides, we fight too much.” Silence. “I left Pedro,” she says, watching a stylish young woman walk past. “I left him because he is an alcoholic. I left him last month. I miss him though.” She looks down at the empty space within her palms as if she had dropped something.
“How did the two of you do after Maria died?”
“We were sad, both of us. Sort of lost and unable to move past her death.”
“Did it affect your relationship?”
“I don’t really know. . . . It doesn’t really matter now. Does it?”
“Are you still drinking?” I ask her.
“I’m cutting down,” she says.
“So you are all alone now on the streets? Isn’t it dangerous for you?”
She smirks a shaky smirk. “Don’t worry, Chi. I am an old woman for the streets. I know it too well. I can protect myself easily.”
Silence.
“Daniela, I want people around the world to know your story. I want you to tell them who you are.”
“Why do you want my story? Mine is not a good story.”
“We want to hear your story because you are important.”
“I am important?” She laughs, her hand on her chest. She doesn’t want to believe it. She cannot believe it. Street children are never asked for anything but their money and their sex.
“Yes, you are important.”
She brings three more cards out of her plastic bag. “Buy my cards, Don Chi.”
“Sure, I will buy your cards.”
“Why do you want to know about my story?”
“Because I want to learn from you,” I tell her. “You need to teach me.”
“Okay, but will you buy my cards?” she asks, making sure.
“Daniela, I will buy your cards regardless,” I tell her.
Silence.
“Okay, what do you want to know?” she asks.
“Tell me about your home,” I say, pressing the record button on my tape recorder, “and why you decided to leave.”
Daniela settles her body, as if doing so might snuggle her mind backward into the past. “I have been a street girl for the last six years. I used to live with my grandmother, but she died. My mother drank quite a bit and would beat me. She would hit me all over my body with cables, chicotes (whips), knives, fists, and sticks. The only time I was a happy child was when I left home. I went to live with my grandmother when I was ten years old. I was so happy because she understood me and did not abuse me. Then she just died on me. I know it sounds selfish.”
“Where is your father?” I ask.
“I never knew him,” she says.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“I had an older sister, but she died two years ago.”
“How did she die?” I ask.
“She was in prison and got very sick,” Daniela laments. “I have a younger sister. She is the same as myself. She went to the streets because of physical abuse from my mother. She lives in an orphanage right now. I think that she is doing well.”
“Do you see her much?”
“Every once in a while.”
“What happened after your grandmother died?” I ask her.
“I left home six years ago and went to the streets. I met this lady, Valeria.” Daniela looks up, as if the name itself uplifted her. “She told me that the streets are dangerous, and she allowed me to live with her. But Valeria eventually had cancer and took too many pills. I was so happy when I was living there, but then she died.”
“What is it like being a street girl?”
“Life on the streets is bad,” says Daniela, her mouth twisting. “We, as street children, have been abused throughout our entire lives. But people never listen to us. People just look at us and see dirty kids; they treat us poorly. I admit that street children use drugs and steal sometimes. But people don’t understand our situation on the streets. They don’t realize the problems. It is not necessarily the problems on the streets that make us do bad things. Oftentimes, it is our families; we have bad parents. But people don’t listen. They never listen.”
“What do you want for yourself?” I ask her.
“My dream is to leave the streets,” she says. “I want to move forward in my life. I want to sell things. My girlfriends changed their lives, and so can I. I took a wrong turn and went down the wrong path. I want to change because of my little girl, Natalia. I want to go to a program where they can give me money so that I can sell material—to allow me to help my baby. Everything is in God’s hands.”
In God’s hands. Trite. Concise. Do I believe it? At times my belief in God is so weak that it frightens me. After months of walking the streets and knowing that the hungry mouth today will remain hungry tomorrow, I wonder. “Do you believe in God?” I ask Daniela.
“Yes.”
“Why do you believe there is a God?” I find it strange that a girl who lives in hell on Earth believes there is a God in heaven.
She looks at me quizzically. “Of course there is a God, Don Chi. Don’t you believe in God?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course I do.” I take a deep breath. “Tell me about Maria,” I say.
“Maria died because she was sick,” Daniela states. “We went to the hospital, but she died anyway. I miss her so much.” Daniela cries. “When I got kicked out of Yassela, she was well. We went to live on the streets, and she got sick. She got sicker and sicker on the streets, so I took her to the hospital. She was ill for nearly one month. And then one night she just died.” Daniela lets out a sob. “I just walked and walked the streets that night. I was looking for help because I did not have any money. I found men and women who were kind, but they had other responsibilities. . . .” Daniela gathers herself. “Then I found you. We spent all day in the hospital trying to get my baby out of the morgue. We had a wake, and then we buried her. I miss her so much. Natalia is all alone now with no one to play with. I never want Natalia to live on the streets.”
“What do you want for Natalia?” I ask her, not skipping a beat.
“I don’t want her to be mistreated like I was when I was a child,” Daniela says, her voice strong again. “I want everything good for her. I want her to work and study. I don’t want her to turn out like me.”
“What would you say to the president of Bolivia?” I ask Daniela.
“The children of Bolivia are the most important people because we are the future. When you have more street children, Bolivia will fall. Build more schools. Protect us from violence.”
“How can I help the street children?”
“Build a home for us, Don Chi. We need a home where they understand us. Please don’t misunderstand me. Most of the people in the homes do not treat us poorly. Overall, they treat us quite well. There are counselors who understand us. But there are other counselors who treat us poorly and cause us to return to the streets. Build a home for us, Don Chi.”
Build a home? Is she
crazy? How am I going to build a home for the children? I don’t even have a job. I don’t have any money. I can’t speak the language fluently.
“Daniela, there are plenty of homes in La Paz that you can go to.”
“Yes, I want to live in the home that you build.”
“Why? What is so special about the home that I build?”
“You. You understand us.”
“You know I am pretty strict on the children, and some people say that I am hard on you guys.”
“I know, but that is okay because you want what is best for us. The kids listen to you.”
A home? It is an impossible dream. Who is going to take care of the children when I am gone? Who is going to put food in their mouths?
“Do you want to buy some Christmas cards now?”
“How much are they?”
“One boliviano for every card, and six bolivianos per pack. There are ten different cards per packet. Each card celebrates baby Jesus.” Daniela searches through the motley assortment of cards. She picks out a packet that is not bent on the edges and has the clear wrapping still intact. “They are beautiful,” she assures me.
“I will send them to my friends at Park Street Church in Boston,” I tell Daniela. “They will receive them just in time for Easter.”
“Why don’t you buy two packets?” she suggests. “I am sure that you have lots of friends.” She gives me a smirk and a wink.
“Sure.” I take an extra packet. She really is a good salesperson.
“Thank you, Don Chi,” she says to me. “Are you going to celebrate Christmas?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
“How? Are you going to have a big feast and sing songs?”
“No,” I say.
“What do you do for Christmas?”
“I go and pray,” I say. “I think about Christ, birth and death, and other things.”
Daniela looks at me and with great care asks, “You think about your sister, don’t you?”
“How do you know about my sister?”
“You told me about her during the wake. Remember?”
“Oh, yes.” I don’t usually tell strangers that story. But Daniela is a stranger no longer. I am glad that she remembers my story. The night is silent. People walk by quietly, and the Christmas vendors pack up for home. “Yes,” I say. “Christmas is a hard day for me.”
When Invisible Children Sing Page 18