April 6th, 2009
4/06/2009
Oi! I am very, very sick. The antibiotics for my bladder infection seemed to have shot down my immune system, leaving my body defenceless and vulnerable. Nothing serious—a little vomit, a lot of snot; I can’t really talk, itchy ears, burning eyes, pressured head, a lil’ fever, mucho acidic saliva. I’m really living up to my last name here. Emma Gross? Why yes I am!
The other day, Adriane, Emeterio, Clemente and I went down to the little village just down the river and I played guitar for the niños. I love little kids and watching them in their element. They live the way most adults try to live. In the moment, fascinated by what they see, hear and feel. There were two little girls climbing around on a fallen tree. One of the little girls found a skinny flexible branch and was jumping up and down, taking advantage of its spring-like qualities. I was pleased to see how much joy she got out of this simple play. The sensation of being weightless, of jumping up and down aroused so much excitement and amused her for God knows how long—it was beautiful to see. There also was this mentally challenged boy—he was a little older, tall skinny, probably twelve or thirteen years old. He, even more than the others, seemed absolutely enthralled by everything that came into his line of vision. He had jerky motions and electric, wiry, eyes. When he saw me, I flashed him a grin and he let out a little squawk in his amazement. I’m sure a smiley gringa was a new sight for him. I watched him for a while, racing a wheelbarrow around the grass like he was a race car driver. Sometimes, they’d fall over (he and the wheelbarrow that is) and it would be about ten minutes before he got up again because he’d see something interesting down there in the grass. I remember he went over to this one boy sitting near a bunch of adults. The boy he approached was chubby and reminded me of a Peruvian Dudley Dursly. Dudley didn’t want the boy to bother him so he grabbed him by the arms and started forcing him backwards. The adults snickered and laughed. I was appalled. The boy tried to fight back, or at least liberate himself from the boy’s death grip. For the first few seconds, the boy didn’t know how to react. He was startled and seemed to take it as play. Then a look of panic overtook his face and his movements got anxious. The adults laughed and Dudley was encouraged. I wanted to get up and scream “Que estas haciendo?” I knew it wasn’t my place, but did that matter? Thankfully, a bold little girl with sweet motherly instincts ran over, wrestled Dudley off. “Deja lo! Deja lo”. She wasn’t petite, but she was still half the size of Dudley and about a foot and a half shorter than the other boy. I was proud of her, ashamed of myself, disgusted with the adults, and sad for Dudley who had apparently begun to develop weak habits of doing things simply because they were encouraged.
I began to play music and they all huddled around. They were pleased. The skinny mentally challenged boy seemed to be in heaven, a wave of relaxation and contentment seemed to have washed over his whole body and glazed over his eyes. He just smiled lazily and didn’t even seem to notice the hoard of flies and chiggers buzzing around his head. When I was finished, I asked if anybody wanted to play. There was this bold little fellow who marched right on up, gave me a grin and started to strum his little hands over the sound hole while I made the chords on the neck. “Now sing!” I told him—and he burst into song, making up the first lyrics that came into his head. Everybody giggled along with him. A curious lil’ tyke came up to me and looked into my eyes with a sceptical confident, questioning stare. He held my gaze for a solid thirty seconds—just looking into my eyes, trying to figure out who I was and what I was all about. I encouraged him to play and made a few jokes and funny faces. Eventually he smiled, concluding I was ‘alright’ and rejoined his buddies. Good experience.
04/06/09
-Emma G.
Oi! I am very, very sick. The antibiotics for my bladder infection seemed to have shot down my immune system, leaving my body defenceless and vulnerable. Nothing serious—a little vomit, a lot of snot; I can’t really talk, itchy ears, burning eyes, pressured head, a lil’ fever, mucho acidic saliva. I’m really living up to my last name here. Emma Gross? Why yes I am!
The other day, Adriane, Emeterio, Clemente and I went down to the little village just down the river and I played guitar for the niños. I love little kids and watching them in their element. They live the way most adults try to live. In the moment, fascinated by what they see, hear and feel. There were two little girls climbing around on a fallen tree. One of the little girls found a skinny flexible branch and was jumping up and down, taking advantage of its spring-like qualities. I was pleased to see how much joy she got out of this simple play. The sensation of being weightless, of jumping up and down aroused so much excitement and amused her for God knows how long—it was beautiful to see. There also was this mentally challenged boy—he was a little older, tall skinny, probably twelve or thirteen years old. He, even more than the others, seemed absolutely enthralled by everything that came into his line of vision. He had jerky motions and electric, wiry, eyes. When he saw me, I flashed him a grin and he let out a little squawk in his amazement. I’m sure a smiley gringa was a new sight for him. I watched him for a while, racing a wheelbarrow around the grass like he was a race car driver. Sometimes, they’d fall over (he and the wheelbarrow that is) and it would be about ten minutes before he got up again because he’d see something interesting down there in the grass. I remember he went over to this one boy sitting near a bunch of adults. The boy he approached was chubby and reminded me of a Peruvian Dudley Dursly. Dudley didn’t want the boy to bother him so he grabbed him by the arms and started forcing him backwards. The adults snickered and laughed. I was appalled. The boy tried to fight back, or at least liberate himself from the boy’s death grip. For the first few seconds, the boy didn’t know how to react. He was startled and seemed to take it as play. Then a look of panic overtook his face and his movements got anxious. The adults laughed and Dudley was encouraged. I wanted to get up and scream “Que estas haciendo?” I knew it wasn’t my place, but did that matter? Thankfully, a bold little girl with sweet motherly instincts ran over, wrestled Dudley off. “Deja lo! Deja lo”. She wasn’t petite, but she was still half the size of Dudley and about a foot and a half shorter than the other boy. I was proud of her, ashamed of myself, disgusted with the adults, and sad for Dudley who had apparently begun to develop weak habits of doing things simply because they were encouraged.
I began to play music and they all huddled around. They were pleased. The skinny mentally challenged boy seemed to be in heaven, a wave of relaxation and contentment seemed to have washed over his whole body and glazed over his eyes. He just smiled lazily and didn’t even seem to notice the hoard of flies and chiggers buzzing around his head. When I was finished, I asked if anybody wanted to play. There was this bold little fellow who marched right on up, gave me a grin and started to strum his little hands over the sound hole while I made the chords on the neck. “Now sing!” I told him—and he burst into song, making up the first lyrics that came into his head. Everybody giggled along with him. A curious lil’ tyke came up to me and looked into my eyes with a sceptical confident, questioning stare. He held my gaze for a solid thirty seconds—just looking into my eyes, trying to figure out who I was and what I was all about. I encouraged him to play and made a few jokes and funny faces. Eventually he smiled, concluding I was ‘alright’ and rejoined his buddies. Good experience.
04/06/09
-Emma G.
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