As a Child I Collected Bandaids
As a child I collected bandaids. Muppet Babies, Cabbage Patch Kids, shiny rainbows adorned the topside of the adhesive strips in my bandaid box. I never used them, though. As with the cute purple elephant-shaped soap my sister got one Christmas which I never let her use (how could you tell it was an elephant any more, if you used it?) I saved them for a special occasion. And so somehow, 20 years later, those bandaids ended up in my first aid kit in Guayaquil, Ecuador.

In the evenings I love to sit on the ledge in front of my house, between the gray of its cinderblock wall and the orange of the dusty rocky road that runs in front of it. It is cool and breezy in the evenings, a welcome relief from the equatorial sun of the daytime. I began sitting there in an attempt to read my book away from the constant blare of the television, but within minutes I realized the children who live on my street were to be my entertainment.



Wilson is six years old, and lives directly accross the street. I often hear my name and have to look around for a while before I see him, perched on top of a fence or waving at me through a crack in his closed door. He’s got the quickest wit of any six-year-old I’ve met, constantly provoking his friends with crazy nicknames and taunts, responding instantly to whatever they say. They call him “cat eyes,” for their light green-brown color, but they are most noticable for their mischievous twinkle.

Wilson’s zest for life is always visible on his person. This week he has a black eye; two weeks ago his leg had several gashes from where he’d fallen off his bike. When I saw his wounds I was horrified, they were infected and not healing. I asked if I could doctor them, and he agreed, so every night he, surrounded by the neighbor kids, would sit on the ledge by me. There was always a running commentary on the status of his wounds as the hydrogen peroxide bubbled, and often Wilson winced at its sting. But then he would grin as I opened my bag of bandaids. The kids pressed closer, what would it be today, and pretty soon Wilson would be standing upright once again in their midst, Neosporin and Kermit the Frog or Garfield now sticking to his skinny leg. As I packed up my first aid kit once again, I would smile that the bandaids still stuck, and at the special occasion.

October 16 2004 Journal Entry

Last night I came inside after playing doctor on the front ledge, and as I pushed back my shower-curtain door to put my Band-Aids back in my room, Manuel told me, "You should not waste your resources on those kids." I began explaining that Wilson has infected cuts on his legs and that simply need to be cleaned, but he cut me off. "Those kids, their parents don't take care of them, they´re always in the streets. You shouldn't waste your supplies on them." I felt my face growing red, my I-hate-to-be-bossed-around button pushed.

"They´re my things, I can do what I want to do," I told him.

"Those kids are like dogs in the street..." he continued, indignant. Anger shot straight up my body, hit my brain, I lost it.

"He´s not a dog, he´s a child!" I screamed.

Manuel backed away into the kitchen, muttering. I strode past him into the bathroom and slammed the door (the only door in the house - good thing it´s there, I needed to slam something). My shaking hands brushed my teeth with more vigor than usual, and when I emerged from that little blue room, I said goodnight to the 5 silent people in the house, pulled my shower curtain over the entrance to my room, and burst into tears. I lay in my bed staring through my mosquito net at the tin roof for a long time last night.

Why was I born into a beautiful family where I was loved, cared for?
Into a world where I have known more equality than women have in much of the world, where I have been free from poverty, want?
Into a world where there have always been Band-Aids?

This morning over breakfast I told Manuel I wasn´t able to listen to him the last night because I was too angry but wondered if there were something important he was trying to tell me. Ceci, his wife, told me it was okay that I was angry and okay that I give the kids on my street love; they need it. Manuel didn´t say anything about that, but laughed telling me I had turned as red as my shirt.

I wonder about my time with this family. My conscience will not LET me be a pacific inhabitant of this house. I was shocked by my confrontation with Manuel. It is rare I feel so out of control of myself. But it is part of me. I know I cannot stand by and watch Manuel hit the kitten, I cannot let Cecilia run around and do all the housework by herself while everyone else sits in front of the TV and expects to be served. And I cannot be told to ignore the infected mess on Wilson´s leg.
- posted by little monk @ 1:58 PM