An Orphanage

Yesterday, something happened:

I stood in a way I'm not sure I have ever stood before.
I was holding my folder against my chest, and I had to relax my muscles completely, move it to my side, when I realized I was clutching it, inappropriate for the situation.
My head was tilted down and to the side, lost in thought. It was like that for a while, unknowingly.
My lips were parted a little, and I'm sure my bottom lip was relaxed to the point of looking ridiculous, which usually happens when my mind is too occupied to be self conscious, when I'm experiencing.
My shoulders and chest were caved in. It wasn't lazy like a slouch, it was insecure, uncomfortable, and terrified, like a cowering. I usually stand tall, with my shoulders back, posture. What am I doing? crossed my mind.
My eyes were up, glancing from face to face in the room, slowly assessing the happiness of each person. 
And that smell came again, I almost gagged. It was the food from the kitchen. I can't bare to be in here another moment.


I was in an orphanage. It had 12 kids, ranging in age from one to seventeen maybe, and three Catholic nuns. The kids were there, because, as our teacher explained, their parents had either died or left them, or they had been violated. That last word made my stomach twist. I felt sick as we walked up to the door, where there was a dog with one eye.
That was the first time I've ever been there, in an orphanage, surrounded by people whose pasts are so entirely gross, so mortifying. I had a very physical reaction to the situation, obviously. I was clutching my folder and almost gagging at the smell of food.

But as my eyes shifted through their faces, I realized they looked happy. My ears tuned in to the nun's talk for the first time, "Aquí tenemos nuestra familia, es una familia." Religion. Catholicism. What I have rejected. It's providing life and love for these kids, it is so good for them. They look humble, like they might not have desires, and if they do, they are meager, few, and far between. The look happy, loved, comfortable. Religion is saving them. They believe. Do I? Do I need it?

I think of my parents. My heart swells, my chest feels like it's growing to twice it's size. I need to talk to them, now, to hear them, to tell them how entirely grateful I am that they didn't leave me, didn't violate me. It hurts to think that word. That they didn't die... The urgency of my need to talk to them intensifies momentarily.


And then I feel the overwhelming need to be here, in this room. To help, sure, but more to just be here. I would change. I might need to be here for four hours a week this semester.