“Hey, Rosa.” I snap out of my stupor. “Hey, Señorita Flashlight! Get over here.”
A drunken man at the end of the row glares at me, and I avoid looking directly at him. I believe he is Rosa’s father.
“What do you want? I am busy.” She is shining the light into the eyes of all her drunk role models trying to sleep.
“Rosa,” I say, “leave them alone.”
“What’s that?” she points.
“An otoscope.” I hold it before her face for her examination.
“A what?” She wrinkles her forehead and shrugs her shoulders.
“It is an otoscope. It is a little machine for looking into people’s ears.”
“Ohh.” She exhales. “Test me.”
I examine her ears. “Looks fine to me.” She is lucky, in the perverted calculus of the streets, that her mother and her grandparents are all homeless. They live with her on the streets, and so do the family friends—an entire social network. She is twistedly lucky that this group of people drink too much. Their bodies with their dilated arteries provide alcohol-induced warmth in the cold of the Andean nights. She is lucky she has developed a spunky attitude, that she is not docile. She’s smart. She’s curious. And she does not shrink from the world. She has a chance of making it off the streets alive.
Rosa hops back into the bundle of blankets and pulls out her favorite toy. A duck. All the stuffing has fallen out of it; the duck is completely flat. There are no more quacks left in the poor little mallard.
An image pops into my mind: Rosa at twelve years of age is being picked up by a drunk businessman for a “Friday night special.” Is she going to cut herself every day, like Mercedes? Will she survive like Vicki, selling her body for a dollar a trick? Will she give birth to a fourth generation of street children, not even distinguished by being the first? Will the cycle spin on?
My heart hurts at the thought. No. No! This must stop! The cycle stops here. I hope.
Dangerous hope. If I allow my hopes to fixate on one child, I will only be depressed for weeks or months or forever, until that child is off the streets like Vicki or until that child has simply disappeared like Gabriel and Mercedes. Where is my patience? What about simply walking with the children, wherever they are going? Patience cannot be an excuse for complacency. I may walk with the children, but I am also steering them in certain directions.
But how can one man reverse the injustices inherited by Rosa from three generations of street life? Where is God in this morass of human suffering? I don’t know. Where are the billions of dollars the U.S. government spends on global humanitarian aid? It’s really humanitarian aid with geopolitical/national security interests. Rosa, poor soul, is only worth helping if she has oil beneath her feet or a nuclear warhead pointed at the United States. She has neither. Rosa is only a child. But I will not rest until Rosa lives in a true home.
Rosa settles down into her mother’s arms. Catia cradles her lovingly and kisses the top of her head. Catia wraps Rosa in the strata of blankets and tucks Rosa between herself and Rosa’s grandmother. They slumber atop a cardboard mattress in the shadow of a blue tarp canopy.
Whoooohh! The cold wind blows. A cackle cuts through it: “Bahahaha!” Not knowing the joke, I laugh with Rosa.
30
Child One
March 30, 1998;
Casa de la Cultura
Sometimes you hear them crying from ahuayos on their mothers’ backs. Sometimes you see them learning to walk, tripping among bottles of thinner and the feet of child prostitutes. Sometimes you hear them laughing as hard as any little baby in the world.
And sometimes they are so quiet you know they are on the verge of leaving the hard pavement forever. Born on the street, in a dark corner, in an alleyway perhaps, some little ones never leave their graves—like the cemetery kids.
Street babies and street toddlers are everywhere. There are so many, from corner to corner, I don’t know where to start. I watch Rosa play. She has captured the hearts and the imaginations of me and everyone I work with. She is hope. As she learns to run across the concrete squares behind the museum, I think about this: Where do I start? With Child One. Concentrate my efforts on one child and bring her off the street. Make sure that her life is stable and directed. Then move on to Child Two and then Child Three and so on until all the children have a home.
I have to admit that this methodology probably will not produce a mass exodus of children from the street. But this is the way that makes sense to me. A public health specialist I am not; I don’t care about cost-benefit analysis. I have been trained as a doctor. When I see a patient, I take care of that patient as best as I can. I go all out for that patient. I don’t simply make sure that the patient is not dying and then push him out of my office. It’s my responsibility to make sure that patient is securely on the path of healthy living for the foreseeable future. Rosa is my first patient.
“Hello, Rosa.”
“Cheee!” She runs up the rear corridor of Casa de la Cultura and gives me a big kiss on the cheek. She knows her Bolivian manners.
“How are you, Rosa?”
“Good!” she screams cheerfully.
“Rosa,” I whisper to her, “I am right here. You don’t have to holler.”
“Oops!” She covers her mouth with both hands.
“What did you do today?”
“Nothing.” She shrugs her shoulders.
“Did you eat today?”
“Yes.”
“What did you eat today?”
“Some bread.”
Some bread to fill the stomach and trick it into believing that it is not malnourished. Bread is wonderful. Wonderful when it is with meat or vegetables. “Did you have anything else?” I ask.
“Ummm . . .” She places her hand against her cheek pensively. “Grandpa gave me some fruit juice.”
“Well, that’s good,” I respond. “How’s Grandpa?”
“Drunk.” She imitates a drunk stumbling from side to side and then suddenly falling to the ground.
“Rosa,” I suggest, “why don’t you take the flashlight and announce my arrival while I talk to your mother?”
“Bueno!” She nods emphatically. “Chi is here!”
“Hello, Catia. Sit down on the steps with me, and let’s talk.”
Catia eases herself down onto the step as people ascend and descend around us. “How are you, Don Chi?”
“I am fine, Catia. How’s business?” I ask, easing the conversation in the desired direction.
Catia looks down at her tray of glasses filled with fruit juice and floating chunks of odd-looking fruit. “Business is bad,” she says. “People aren’t thirsty and the economy is bad. I sell about six bolivianos in drinks every day. I give two to the person I rent the stand from, and I have to buy fruit too. Competition is fierce.” Indeed, Catia echoes Daniela, who is likely competing against Catia for business tonight. They battle each other for that extra boliviano so that their daughters might diversify their diets. Adam Smith would smile if he could see them. Hurray for unadulterated capitalism.
“Catia,” I ask her, “what do you want for Rosa?”
“What do you mean?” She clasps her hands together.
“What do you want her future to be?” I ask.
Catia looks far out into the distance at that ever-unreachable land beyond the horizon. “I don’t want her to be me,” she pushes out of her mouth.
I turn my head slowly to look at her. “What did you say?” I ask.
“I don’t want her to be me,” she repeats.
I want to object to her statement, to build her self-esteem, to tell her, “There’s nothing wrong with you, Catia.” But that would be patronizing and untrue. She lets Rosa go unattended at times; luckily Monica is always there. But the money for meat and vegetables often ends up in the bottom of a bottle. And the alcohol makes Catia vicious. She beats Rosa, pounding her head against the cement wall relentlessly. Where’s the Department of Social Services? Wh
ere’s Child Protective Services? Where’s foster care? They’re in the United States. Instead, Rosa has me. My job is to empathize, sympathize, and hopefully not eulogize.
“I don’t want her to have my life,” says Catia. She looks into my eyes, as I take my turn at looking far away.
“And what life is that?” I ask Catia.
“To live day by day on these three square blocks, selling fruit juice and earning six bolivianos a day. Not enough to eat a good meal each day. Too much to die.”
Indeed, Catia actually falls backward each day, owing more and more to the man who rents her the fruit stand. She is like a slave, except that slaves are kept in houses.
“So, what do you want me to do for Rosa?” I ask, hoping Catia will allow Rosa to sleep at Yassela at night and pick her up in the day.
Catia places her hand on my hand. “I want you to adopt Rosa. Make her your own.”
“Me?” I stall.
“Yes, you.”
“Why me?”
“Because you can, and I can’t.”
“Won’t she miss you, Catia?”
“Yes.” Tears roll down through the crevices of her aged face. Rosa is the primary reason Catia continues living. “What is best for her is to stay away from me, or else she will grow up to be like me.”
“Oh,” I say, still stunned. “I don’t think I can adopt Rosa.”
“Why not?” she asks, half desperate, half relieved.
“Because,” I say, “my life is crazy. When I am in Bolivia, I am always on the streets taking care of the children. When I return to Boston, I will be a medical resident, working all the time. Besides, what do I know about being a father?”
“I know you, Chi. I have been watching you for a long time.” Catia shifts her body to face me. “You know how to take care of children and be a good father to them.”
“Why can’t she go to Yassela?” I deflect.
“Yassela orphanage?” Catia shakes her head and stands to leave. “No. I want Rosa to be with you, not at an orphanage.”
I stand up quickly. “I thought you wanted Rosa to live in a home. If Rosa stays at Yassela, she can appreciate life on the other side. She’ll learn skills for living and working. And if she learns to appreciate life in a home, she’ll struggle hard to get off the streets when she gets old enough.”
Catia closes her eyes, and a hundred wrinkles wash away. “You ask her if she wants to go. If she does, then you can take her to Yassela orphanage.”
Catia and I walk to Rosa, who is playing under the statue of the big head. “Hola, Rosa,” I greet her. “Would you like to sleep at the Yassela orphanage tonight?”
“No,” says Rosa.
“How about we just visit the orphanage for an hour?”
“No,” she says. “I want to stay here with my mommy.”
Of course she wants to stay with her mommy. Any child would. She doesn’t realize that the rest of her life is at stake, that if she stays on the street, she will live, die, and reproduce there. “There are dolls at Yassela,” I say.
“What types of dolls?” she asks.
“All types of dolls,” I lilt.
“Hmmm.” She considers. “Can I take my duck?” She waves the lifeless piece of cloth in the air as I nod yes.
“Okay,” she says. “My duck needs friends. But only an hour.” Rosa does not know what an hour is; she just knows it’s not too long. “Only an hour,” I promise. Rosa looks to her mother, who gives an almost imperceptible nod.
“Okay, let’s go!” she says. “Quack!”
As I carry Rosa away, I feel the eyes of Catia watching her baby, hoping that the invisible string between mother and daughter is not broken, at least not tonight.
The little hand of Rosa grips my own as my other hand knocks on the red wooden door of Yassela orphanage. Boom, boom, boom. A groggy social worker—Shana—opens the door. “Thank God you are here, Dr. Chi,” she says. “Belinda has a painful ear and has been crying all night.” Shana looks down at Rosa. “Who’s this?”
“This is Rosa.” I tug on Rosa’s hand. “Rosa, meet Señora Shana.” Rosa’s lively spirit disappears into the night.
Señora Shana leans her head against the door. “Where did you find her?”
“At Casa de la Cultura.”
Sara, peeking from behind Señora Shana’s nightgown, points her finger at Rosa and yells, “Who’s that?” The entire population of little girls and teens dressed in pajamas has gathered behind Señora Shana.
“This is Rosa,” I say.
“Why isn’t she at home?” asks Sara. “Why isn’t she sleeping?”
“She doesn’t have a home.”
“You mean she lives out there with you?” Sara asks in disbelief.
“Sara, I don’t live on the streets.”
“It sure seems that way.” Sara walks up to Rosa. “Hey, Rosa! How old are you?”
Frightened, Rosa manages to put up three fingers.
“Three? Three! You are a little baby.” The crowd echoes her sentiment. “Come on, Rosa.” Sara grabs Rosa’s hand. “Do you want to play with my dolls?”
Rosa looks at me for approval and then lets herself down from my arms. Sara leads Rosa down three flights of stairs, step by step, and with each step Sara describes one of the dolls in the world of Sara.
Señora Shana and I walk down to Belinda’s room, and I treat Belinda’s ear infection with anesthetic ear drops and antibiotics. We tuck Belinda into bed and walk to Sara’s room, where Sara sleeps as Rosa speaks to one of Sara’s dolls. “And then my mother said, ‘Get out of the street!’ and I ran back to her. And then a mean man came over to Mommy and asked her for money.”
“Hola,” I sing to Rosa.
She looks up at me and says, “Chi, I want this doll.”
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry, Rosa, but this doll belongs to the girls here.”
Rosa looks at her long-lost friend with an out-turned bottom lip. Señora Shana leaves the room. “Come on, Rosa,” I say to her. “It’s time to go. It’s three in the morning already.”
Señora Shana returns with a different doll in her hand. “Here, Rosa,” she announces. “You can have this doll.” She is a sickly looking doll. The eyes are gone. Five strands of blonde hair hang precariously from her skull. She owns no clothes. Now this is the ugliest doll I have ever seen, worse than Mr. Quack. Rosa cradles the doll in her arms. She grabs a small brush off the bed and combs the doll’s hairs. I want to tell Rosa to be careful; there’s no Rogaine for dolls. I restrain myself.
“Thank you! Thank you!” Rosa shouts in glee, inadvertently waking Sara. “Rosa,” asks sleepy-eyed Sara, “do you want to stay or do you want to leave?” Before Rosa can answer, Sara whines, “You should stay. You should stay.”
The other girls, now awake, chime in with desperate pleas, all their motherly instincts awakened as well. “It’s dangerous out there.” Sara grabs Rosa’s hand. “Stay here, and you can take hot baths, sleep in bunk beds, and play with us all day!” Rosa doesn’t register the goodness of these amenities.
A semicircle forms around Rosa. She is trapped, forced to make a decision. Rosa brings Mr. Quack and her new doll closer to her chest; she looks at me with eyes that cry for me to pick her up and take her away, and I am about to pick her up when she peeps to me in her baby Spanish, “I want to go back.”
I will not tempt Rosa with dolls or good meals. She trusts her mother and no one else. Perhaps in a few weeks or months, she will sleep under a roof, but tonight neither Rosa nor Catia are prepared to give up their rainy, blue-tarp nights together. I carry Rosa out of Yassela, and we return to mother, and Mother Street.
31
Rosa Must Stay
11 p.m., April 15, 1998;
Casa de la Cultura
I have this fantasy. An upper-middle-class family living in suburban Boston adopts Rosa. The adoptive mother plays with Rosa every day and teaches her both English and Spanish. The father is gentle and kind. Rosa attends a good school, she�
�s a model student, and she lives happily ever after.
I have this reality. I know of no suburban family ready to shell out big bucks and loads of time to adopt a toddler off the streets of Bolivia. Besides, Catia didn’t want anyone besides myself to adopt Rosa. I can’t imagine trying to care for Rosa as I work thirty-six-hour shifts for four years as a medical resident. And the whole idea of “saving Rosa” by taking her away from her mother so she can live far away in the United States—where she will undo her mestizo culture in a proper first world setting—smacks of the worst kind of colonialism. But is political correctness more important than the health and well-being of a child?
As I watch Rosa play, Rosa’s father watches me. He doesn’t speak to me, but he is generally respectful to me. He knows that I can help Rosa, but he wants me out of his territory, away from his family.
Catia sits with me at the top of the stairs leading down to Casa de la Cultura, well out of earshot of this man. We watch Rosa reach for a bottle of alcohol Grandpa Ernesto is drinking from. Ernesto shoos her away, and Monica swoops her up and drops her off among a circle of children. Every day Rosa learns a little more of the culture of the streets. She learns about drinking alcohol, how to stand up to people, how to watch for “bad guys.” She will eventually learn how to fight, sniff thinner, cut herself and others, run, steal, sell her body, and fend off male perpetrators. It is both bad and good.
Catia tells me of her day’s events, as she often does. She tells me of her difficulties, and we often talk about Rosa. It’s like therapy. Interestingly, no matter how hard times get, Catia never asks me for money.
“Catia,” I say, “I have taken Rosa to Yassela several times now, and in weeks I will return to Boston. You must decide now. Do you wish for Rosa to live at Yassela?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s the issue?” I ask. “You told me that you don’t want Rosa to be a street person.”
“It’s not that easy.”
Catia and I both want what’s best for Rosa, but what’s best for Rosa may not be what’s best for Catia. She is a woman with almost nothing to live for except her one and only beautiful daughter. And yet she is willing to let her daughter go, under the right circumstances.
When Invisible Children Sing Page 23