The kids

Hello, world.

Had a fair Thanksgiving, and now I'm here in my empty apartment, enjoying a bit of Sun Kil Moon and getting ready for sleep.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cpM-n6t-HHc&feature=player_embedded#!

But something's been tugging at my heart these past few days. There was a wonderful potluck for AmeriCorps folks a few nights ago, and I had a lovely time.

And I listen to members talk, and enjoy their company, and love to hear their stories.

And I realize something as I'm listening. They talk about their kids and their schools and all, and with so much varied love and affection and frustration - the usual stuff, nothing unexpected or wrong or terrible. And as I listen I realize I can't talk about my kids. I can't talk about them.

It's not because I don't know them. I do. I know their stories, I know the names of their siblings, I know which ones get dinner, which ones get affection, which ones do not. I know how they act in class and I know which ones struggle the most. I know which ones might inevitably be taken advantage of, which ones are more prone to showing their emotions than others. I know their laughs and their smiles and I know when they're not having a good day. I know when it's okay to practice reading and I know when it's time to go to the garden instead. And I know that they will invariably suffer for all kinds of reasons.

And I realize that when I think about them individually, my eyes start to burn and my throat locks up and I want to climb into bed and just lay there if I can't be working with them. Because I can't handle it. I can't handle how much we have to go through to get older, to get wiser. I can't bear to think that some of them won't make it. I hate that I know which ones don't get breakfast. I hate that I know which students have clean clothes and which never do. I hate that they have to be raised in this town and that some of them are not wanted and have parents in jail and on the streets and are being cared for by their grandparents. I hate that they have to know these things at eight and nine years old. I hate that I have to read an essay by a nine-year-old girl which says "I want to be a cop because then I can keep people from raping people."

But there are so many assumptions there. Assumptions that I have no right to make. It's not fair to assume that they're not being taken care of. Because the world is complicated and their parents are trying, doing the best they can under the circumstances, I think. I believe that people in general desire to do good, and I don't think the people giving these kids care are any different. But it's such a convoluted mess of violence and anger and hurt and poverty that these kids often have to go home to. They have no choice, and neither do their parents.

And I guess we all cope with this differently. I cope by holding my tongue. Because I don't want to cry. I think I came into this believing AmeriCorps was supposed to be some kind of life experience for me that would turn me into a better person or all that jazz we idealists believe about everything.

I didn't expect it to be a full emotional immersion, I didn't expect to need so much of my heart to cope with it. I didn't expect to feel so vastly overwhelmed by the simple fact that I will never be able to do enough. I feel terribly inadequate, so ill-prepared. I should have brought an army. I should have armed myself for the effect they would have on me. I didn't know. Please, forgive me for not knowing how much I would love them.