Juan Manuel's story

(Sometimes you don't like what you write, but you post it anyways)

As the boys had scarcely any homework Monday evening, they were already in the courtyard playing when their teacher entered with a dark-eyed boy by her side and called a halt to the games. I’d like to introduce you all to the newest member of our family, she said. Treat him with kindness, just like all your other brothers, she added. The boys gathered round and in rapid succession offered a hand to shake and names that the boy, whose windbreaker was zipped protectively to his chin on the warm night, likely forgot immediately. At least, that’s what I did when the boys of the Casa Hogar para Niños first told me their names.

I spend five evenings a week at the Casa Hogar struggling to explain fractions and graphing while they struggle to understand my awkward Spanish. I would be on solid ground if they were studying politics, I know that vocabulary. But explaining mathematics wasn’t a conversation topic in my college Spanish classes, so I’ve stumbled along, learning as I go. For instance, it took nearly a week of fractions before I learned that denominator was a near cognate: denominador.

I’m in my fifth week volunteering for the Casa Hogar and I know every boy’s name, but I’m still unsure what has brought them there. When I first arranged to volunteer, I thought was a home for maltreated kids, as my school coordinator told me. But the evening I arrived at the home, I was given an undated brochure which states it’s an orphanage. Yet more than one kid has told me of parents in the United States. So, I assume it’s a mix. At any rate, I haven’t had the opportunity to ask the teachers, nor does it seem particularly important. As a consequence, however, families are off the conversation list, as in at least two out of three cases it won’t be a happy topic. Nevertheless, sometimes the boys talk to me. Juan Manuel, who told us his name in a whisper after we’d finished bombarding him with ours, was the latest.

To be continued...