Children of Crisis

by Robert Coles

  They obliged. With the pilot this time came a doctor, who had agreed to change his schedule of visits to the various Eskimo villages. He did not only come for the boy, but the boy was seen first, at the school, where his vision could be tested. The child was measured for glasses; he has worn them, mostly, ever since. On very cold days, however, or wet days, or snowy days, they become a hindrance; they fog up in response to changes in temperature, become themselves wet and snow-covered, hence a barrier rather than an aid. And the boy has not always been able to get his glasses fixed; they become loose, bent, eventually useless. Mary describes what happens in the winter, when the planes throughout Alaska have a hard time responding to the most routine and urgent of village requirements: “My brother says to me that he likes my eyes better than the glasses. He says he is glad it’s winter, and he’ll be on his own — or sticking close to me and my eyes! I take him with me when I go to the store, and I read the labels on the cans and packages I buy there, and I tell him what I can see in the sky — a lot of stars or only clouds. And we play a game we call Wish. In the game he makes me guess what he’s wishing — that he could be someplace, or that he could have something. If I guess right, it’s my turn; if I’m wrong, he tells me. He’s easy to play with; he always has the same wishes — that he could see better, or go out and catch a seal or a whale. He’s afraid that because of his eyes, he may not be able to do a lot of hunting or fishing.

  “A lot of people here need glasses, but they don’t want to get them. A friend of my mother’s asked me if everyone in the city wore glasses, and I said I didn’t think so. I don’t like questions like that; they are stupid. I keep telling my brother that the day will come when we’ll fly out of here, and it won’t be to Kotzebue, except to change planes. We’ll go in a jet, and we’ll visit a city in Washington, or Oregon, or California — those are the three states that face the Pacific Ocean, like Alaska does. When we’re down in the lower forty-eight they’ll fix my brother’s eyes so he won’t even have to wear glasses. A teacher told me they can put something in his eyes, a very small piece of glass, and he’ll be able to see the way other people do. Then we could go look around; and we could buy some records. We’d have some money saved up. You can only order certain records in the catalogue.

  “My mother says she’s worried that all I’ll ever do is listen to my records, but I tell her I’d like to get a job in some city, maybe working in a store where they sell records! The pilot told me I could get the records cheaper that way. And I could get myself a new stereo. It would cost a lot, but if you choose a set that isn’t too expensive, and you get it even cheaper, because you work at the store, then you’ve done pretty good. If I brought the set back here — had it sent back on the plane — I’d have a lot of visitors. Even kids who think I’m strange because I want to leave here tell me they’d like to have more records and a big stereo. They’d all come over here, and they’d not only listen; they’d want to know what my brother and I saw down there in the lower forty-eight. We’d tell them. I’d let my brother do most of the talking because he’d be real excited, telling the kids what he saw.”

  She smiles at herself — a little critically, a little indulgently. She suspects it would be hard, after all, for her to keep quiet for long, even though her brother would have so much to tell. When she was much younger, maybe four or five, her grandfather told her that she talked too much; he was sure, accordingly, she would be a great favorite with the white schoolteachers when she started the first grade. But he had not realized how much the particular teachers in that village school admire what they keep calling “traditional Eskimo culture.” A child who likes to talk a lot, and who, even at five or six, was intrigued with the shortwave radio because it made available “dance music” and news of other villages, distant cities, and countries would hardly be the traditional Eskimo child.

  Mary rather soon discovered that her interests were not those of her first-grade teacher. When the teacher tried to point out how strong and proud the Eskimo people are, this one pupil of hers observed that children who lived in other parts of America were lucky. The teacher asked why. The child remembers well her answer — and the consequences: “I spoke quite loud, and she was surprised. I told her that I wouldn’t mind living near a city in the United States of America where there was a Sears Roebuck store. She asked me why, and I told her why. I told her my mother sits with us and lets us look through the catalogue; and we point at the pictures we like, and she tells us how much money we’d need, and then we keep looking. The teacher said there was so much around us up here that we could look at, and we don’t have to pay any money, just go and look — so why think the pictures in the Sears catalogue are so good? I didn’t answer her back, not then; I was too young to know what to say. I did tell my mother what had happened between the teacher and me, and my mother told me not to tell the teacher what I think but to find out what she thinks.

  “That is what my parents and my grandfather and my aunts and uncles have kept telling me, all the time: that I shouldn’t speak my mind to the white people; instead, I should ask them what they believe and what they want, and be friendly with them. But it’s hard for me to pretend I like a person if I don’t really like her! Anyway, the white people who come up here aren’t the only white people in the world, and if the pilot is right, the white people we see are different from the white people in the lower forty-eight. Once the teachers decided to come and talk with my mother and father; they decided that I was different from everyone else! They asked my mother if she was happy with the school — was I learning a lot? She said yes, she was happy and I was. She said she was glad all of her children were learning to read and write, and she hoped we went as far as possible in school. The teacher thanked her, and I remember my mother offering her tea; we had teabags. The teacher said we certainly had everything! My mother didn’t know what she meant at first. She looked to my father. I think he knew, but he only smiled and asked the teacher if she wanted some sugar in the tea. The teacher said no. We gave her cookies, too; but she didn’t want any.

  “Later, when I was older, I could figure out what had happened. The teacher didn’t expect us to serve tea and cookies; I guess she’d only recently come up here to Alaska, and she thought we had completely different food than the kind white people eat. In the past we lived on what we could catch in the water, or find on the land. But it’s different now. She had seen the store, I guess, but hadn’t gone visiting us yet. It’s strange: some of the teachers don’t really want us to live the way we do. They want us to be even poorer than we are! My grandfather says a lot of white people who come here would like to see us living in igloos. He jokes; he says he’s going to build an igloo, and go live in it, and then he’ll be the teachers’ hero. I’m not sure he would know how to build one! Maybe he would. My grandfather sometimes says he doesn’t know how to do anything, except fish, and dry out the fish, and eat; but other times he tells us long stories about the things he used to do when he was younger. Then I wish the teachers were here to listen. They’d really love him, because of what he says.”

  Chicano Children

  In Texas: Carmen

  The head is fixed in position, tilted slightly downward. The feet are slightly apart, and they do not move. The forearms are held tightly behind the back, the hands clasped. The eyes look straight ahead, as if focused on infinity. The only discernible movement in the body is an occasional blink; the force of a shock, it prompts in others a glance, raised eyebrows, a shift of vision. Suddenly the silence is broken: “You may go.” No more and no less than those words; again and again, over the days, the weeks and months, the father uses the expression — permission for his sons and his daughters to leave, to resume whatever activity had been interrupted. And always, before the departure, there is a brief acknowledgment of gratitude: “Thank you, Papa” — three words in exchange for three words. With that accomplished, the head becomes unlocked, the eyes move to the door, and, finally, in a burst of movement that defies a
natomical specification, the body comes alive, and in seconds has disappeared. Then it is the father’s turn; he has been standing still himself, a mirror image, save for his eyes, of the child. As the child leaves, the father’s eyes hold fast to the moving body; when it is out of sight, his gaze for the first time searches out the long view that a window offers. “A child who goes without discipline becomes an animal.” Then there is a brief pause, followed by an important qualification: “No, I do not let my animals go wild. They must watch themselves too. We all must.” He throws a quick glance at the mirror, pulls back, checks the clock unnecessarily (“I don’t need to be reminded of the time; I have a machine that keeps good time in my brain”), and is on his way.

  As he leaves the house he catches up with the child he has just reprimanded; they exchange greetings as if they had not seen one another for quite some time. The father quickens his step when he sees his nine-year-old son, is at the boy’s side in a few seconds, stands there for an additional few seconds with his right hand on the child’s left shoulder. The man says nothing. The child says nothing. They simply stare at one another, and a squeeze of the hand is acknowledged by a slight responsive turn of the boy’s body — toward his father. They show smiles simultaneously. They break away from each other at the same time — the father in the direction of the street, the son toward the house. When the son is out of sight, the father again permits himself a few words: “He is a good boy. He behaves himself. God smiles on us through a child’s eyes.”

  And the observation leads to a qualifying afterthought: “They are the eyes of a boy; they seem wild with greed sometimes. But that is as it must be. I must help him see what is right and what is wrong. Otherwise he will turn out to be a man blinded by his passions. A father does his best. A father is the law. A mother is love. A father’s love is important too, but it cannot be given as fully as a mother’s. My own father taught me how to grow up, and now it is my turn to teach my children. When I become too strict, my wife speaks up. She knows how to make her point without stirring anger in me. She begins telling me how much she respected my father, and she reminds me how gentle he could be with her — and with us, his children. She has made her point. I tell myself not to forget her words, and sometimes they will come to me as I am telling one of the boys to behave better.”

  He claims not to need such reminders when he is disciplining his daughters. They are different, girls; he dares anyone to tell him otherwise. As if someone might be near at hand who would indeed try to make such a case, he launches into a justification of his opinion, summoning in exquisite balance personal experience and a theoretical position he readily admits having been brought up to maintain: “One of my daughters is ten; she was never in much trouble. She is now so grown-up — it is hard to believe that she is but a year older than her brother, or two years younger than her older brother.” He stops at that point to reflect and, it turns out, gather some ammunition: “My wife feels that I am partial to the girls. When I ask her if she knows any father who is more just than I am, she is quick to say no, I am a man, and there is no other reason for the way I act. She then tells me that she is quite sure that she favors our sons.

  “I think she is wrong. I have a strict code; I was educated by both my mother and father to look upon myself as someone God uses. He uses all of us, I know — why else would He place us here for a few years of His time? I try to keep my eyes open; when I see a child of mine saying something wrong, making a mistake, I speak up. I don’t enjoy what I have to do; it is my job as a father to be alert to my children, and I try to do what I am supposed to do as successfully as I can. I will admit that I have some prejudices. Who doesn’t? I wanted all boys — and all girls. Does that sound crazy? If so, I know why; I am hopelessly divided in my loyalties. My sons, they are me — I know no other way to say it. My daughters, they are not only mine; they belong to others — to the men they will marry, to the children they will bring into this world, to our people: Mexican-Americans, they call us, the Anglos whose state this Texas is, whose country this United States is.”

  He stops again; it is as if he has slipped into a slightly awkward grammatical construction to give himself time to think, as well as place his emphasis on a certain political and economic set of circumstances. He does not, however, allow the United States to thwart him, at least on this occasion. Even if he were a citizen of Mexico, of Spain, he is convinced that he would have the same ideas about children and their upbringing. The church transcends all nationalities and races, he reminds himself; and too, there is a certain common sense that is part of one’s nature — a biological given, he takes pains to point out: “I am not very good with words, and anyway, I know some things that I can’t put into words. I try; my wife and I start talking about our children — and soon, about ourselves when we were children. We try to say what we think, but it is hard. A man is not a woman. A boy is not a girl. A father is not a mother. A child is a boy or a girl. A boy has it in him to stretch his arms, to run when his sister would be content to walk. A girl wants to hold on to her doll. Let the brothers throw away the sticks they have just turned into slingshots — an hour or two of time spent; a girl will keep faith in every single toy she receives — or makes for herself. The boy will marry; he will learn to keep faith too. But his mind will wander, and there is no stopping it. My wife doesn’t even admit that I am telling her the truth when I say that my mind wanders, not just any man’s. It is not within her power of imagination to understand what I am struggling to explain to her. I always end up shrugging my shoulders. There is more to life than she and I can discuss. That is what life ends up being — silences that mean a lot.”

  One of them, several minutes long; and a body’s stillness; then his voice chords again: “I keep saying that I can’t find words for my thoughts. That is what happens to me; I’m sorry. The priest has told me that Christ Himself knew when to give up — hold His tongue and pray to our Lord without saying anything. It is very strange: I will talk too much with my daughters and not enough with my sons. I stop myself sometimes, when I am alone, and ask why. I never come up with the answer. Once I turned to my wife: why the difference? I wanted to find out why a man is a different person with his wife, his sons, his daughters. My wife suggested that I go ask our children — take them into my confidence and let them teach me. I did not like her suggestion. To tell the truth, I was angry.”

  He becomes angry remembering his anger. He flushes. He turns restive. For a man who can be so immobile he suddenly seems to have the jitters. He will never turn his children into “witnesses.” Children are not meant to talk about the rights and wrongs of the world; that is for parents to do. Children must learn to behave — must master in their daily activity the kind of moral tact and ethical discrimination he as a Catholic parent strives to convey, day after day: “It would be terrible for a child of mine to be asked what he thinks of his father, what she thinks of her mother. The boys, the girls, mine or anyone else’s — they all would wonder what has happened to us, that we have no trust in our own beliefs. A father needs his standards. My wife is not so sure of our standards. Are we perhaps wrong, she wonders? I tell her no, but she keeps on questioning herself and sometimes even me, though I don’t want to give the impression that we are unhappy together or that she is rude to me. I have my suspicions that often she has discussions with the children that I do not want to know about or hear. It is best sometimes to ignore what, in any case, one cannot change.”

  A nod of his head, as if to say he agrees with himself; then a wink of his right eye — and the right forefinger directed toward the outside. There his wife is hanging some clothes. The sun is strong over the Rio Grande Valley of Texas, so it will only be a few hours until the clothes are being removed and taken back inside. They are mostly children’s clothes. “And why not?” the mother asks, as she looks at the large number of shirts, pants, dresses, and socks she has put on display, as the wind comes and goes. She knows her brief question has come out of nowhere, has mean
ing only for her. She explains herself, apologizes: “I sometimes think that I am a slave to washing these clothes. I am always collecting them from the floor and scrubbing them on the board, the same one my mother used. It is a miracle that the board still exists, and that my knuckles have not become jelly or powder. But then I catch myself; I ask myself why not — that is what must be done if children are to look halfway clean. We are poor, but we take good care of ourselves — the best we know how and can afford to. I never went to school, but my parents taught me how to live a decent, God-fearing life. Can many of the rich Anglo landowners say as much for themselves?”

  She is surprised by what has come out of her mouth. Her husband, she is certain, would not at all like hearing such talk. He has often cautioned her to stay away from political remarks. Who knows what lackeys of which Anglo county official or grower might be near at hand? The priest, too, has advised silence; there is no point, he has preached, trying to fight the guns of the Texas Rangers — and their well-known willingness to use them. Best to obey God’s commandments and trust in His will — which, one is told, “will be done,” if not now or indeed within the foreseeable future, then when “time” is exposed as a mere construct of mortal man. None of that is too abstract a way of regarding Catholic theology for this mother; she has her own way of indicating the breadth of her vision — as it fastens upon eternity or the utterly concrete and immediate issue of children and their laundry: “I think of God often; I talk with Him often; He is with me, I believe. But I know that I have no right to expect more of Him than anyone else. We all make our mistakes, and He has to judge us. That will happen in the very distant future, I know. I throw my hands in the air; I give up wondering when that future will come. Not in anyone’s lifetime. I am certain that a thousand years from now we will be no closer to that future. I told that to my husband one day, and he laughed: ‘You are invading the priest’s land,’ he said. So I told the priest what I believe, and tell my children — about the time when we all will be saved or damned. He said God alone knows when — it could be tomorrow or thousands and thousands of years from now. I told the priest I was sure it wouldn’t be tomorrow, and he looked annoyed with me at first, then he broke out into a laugh. I said that the only thing I was certain tomorrow would bring is washing — more clothes to scrub and soak and put out to dry.