A Thousand and One Faces

There was something about her I couldn’t quite explain. She had the most beautiful and expressive eyes, big and round framed by thick, dark eyelashes. She would excitedly run to me and hold my hand each time I arrived in class. She listened carefully and watched eagerly as I demonstrated the art project for the day. She seemed like an angel, almost too shy.

There were at least twenty five students in each of my two classes at Kaisahang Buhay Foundation (KBF), all of five to six years old. I dreaded the lopsided distribution of three boys to one girl as it really was a test of my patience. Like a rubber band being pulled on one end, I tried so hard to stretch it as long as it can without snapping at my students as soon as it breaks. But boys will be boys and I learned to accept them for what they are, forgiving of rambunctious little monsters, at least for most of the time. But she was different.

She quietly worked on her project but seemed to always want to finish ahead, almost rushing not mindful of the outcome. What was she afraid of? I thought perhaps she easily got bored. But she made others cry, boys included, as she grabbed their materials to create another one or to just simply destroy them. She seemed to derive pleasure in doing so. She was destructive. She showed a certain degree of aggressiveness others would just simply submit to. She was a bully.

I gave her a little warning but her eyes begged me to be more patient, pleaded for me not to be angry. All at once I realized she liked the attention. I looked at her project. It didn’t resemble anything close to the sample I showed them. She had a mind of her own. Was she being creative or just being rebellious? I looked at her coloring sheet that I rewarded them with after doing their project. It was a web of black colored strokes haphazardly drawn outside the picture’s edges. Was she angry? I tried to be very careful not to criticize her work so as not to make her feel rejected. I encouraged her to do it once again, showing her the right way to do it but she was very distracted. I couldn’t read her mind. Her eyes this time were totally blank.

I went to her class once every month and each time she exhibited the same behavior. I tried to dismiss it as out of the ordinary. But something in her struck me and I needed to find out what it was that made her so different. As small as she was, she seemed to be a volcano waiting to explode.

I probed into her family life hoping to find answers to what was bothering her. Or was it I who was bothered? Her father was serving a prison term for drug pushing. Her mother passed her on to the care of her aunt as she could hardly make ends meet occasionally accepting laundering jobs in order to survive. It probably didn’t matter to her that her father was in jail. Perhaps she wasn’t even aware of it or was just too young to understand but having been given up by her mother was the ultimate form of rejection. While this may have been painful to her, I cannot simply fathom her mother’s pain giving her up to afford her a relatively better life.

With so much desire for her to belong, she excitedly started going to school longing to be in the company of other children her age. Her initial feeling of rejection probably began to manifest making life for her teacher difficult. She was a handful! Her teacher, probably not knowing where she was coming from, ultimately gave up on her. She was transferred to another school and once again felt rejected.

This is where I met her. This is where I came to see her if only once a month. It is all clear to me now. Her eyes elicited a thousand and one emotions. She was distinctly filled with anger, sadness and fear. She felt rejected and begged for love and attention. She was always afraid to be left behind. Her eyes spoke to me, pleading for acceptance. And all she wanted was for me to understand.

I now ponder what really is the spirit of volunteerism? Is it just giving a little of our time? Do we actually dare to study their environment? Do we truly give them hope for a better life? Do we in fact give them dignity?

In essence, it entails three aspects: physical, mental and emotional involvement. By being there with them for only but a few hours, we give them importance. It tells them that we choose to be with them despite our busy schedules. When we try to examine their background, we are better able to identify their needs and cultivate their minds. More importantly, when we try to look deeper into their hearts, we are able to nurture both our souls.

I hope, in time, the sadness in her eyes will be replaced with joy, the anger with acceptance and the fear with pride. I wish, one day, the stigma she once felt will be forever gone as she radiantly surfaces above all in her own social sphere.