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February 17, 2005
The Question
(I mentioned in a previous entry how lucky I am to be doing what I love doing. I would never be able to accomplish my dream if it wasn't for my incredible partners at The Comical Sense Company, Fred Miller, Ronda Englander and Woody Englander. Thank you guys for having faith in me and helping me follow my calling.)
People often ask me why I am so passionate about creating books and videos that help kids deal with issues. What made me dedicate my life to changing the world for children? There are many reasons. Here is one of them:
On a trip to Eastern Europe quite some time ago, I visited an orphanage to take pictures and sketch the old brick building that housed the orphans. As I entered the wrought iron gates there was a little boy standing against the red brick gatepost with a pillowcase slung over his shoulder. He appeared to be waiting for someone to pick him up.
The nun who was escorting me steered me past the boy and into the orphanage grounds.
As I passed the boy he looked up at me and spoke.
“What did he say, sister?” I asked the nun, who spoke English.
“He asked if you were his father,” she said, smiling and patting the boy on the head.
I looked at the boy and shook my head. “No, “ I replied. “I’m sorry.”
The nun spoke to the boy again and then shepherded me toward the main building. (It’s amazing how much attention one gets after donating money.)
I spent a few hours taking photos and sketching the old building. It was magnificent.
I could not stay very long because my heart was breaking for the children I saw sleeping on wooden beds and peeking around pillars and darkened doorways. The only words I heard spoken were hurried orders from the Mother Superior who constantly seemed to be herding the kids this way and that each time I turned a corner.
I wanted to rescue them all. I felt like I was letting them down. I knew many of the children were hoping I was there to adopt them. Finally I had to turn my back on them and leave. I did it quickly.
On my way out I saw the boy still standing at the gate.
“What does he have over his shoulder?” I asked the nun.
“Silly boy,” she said. “He puts his clothes in a pillow-cover in case his father comes to take him home. But that will never happen.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because his father is dead.” She said.
“Does he know?” I said.
“We told him,” she said. “But he does not believe us.”
I thanked the sister and left the orphanage waving at the boy as I passed.
He waved back.
Half way down the block I turned to take one last look at the orphanage and noticed a bread deliveryman carrying a bundle of baguettes into the gate.
The boy was still standing where I first saw him.
I heard the boy ask the man the same question.
“Are you my father?”
“No,” replied the man, ruffling the little boy’s hair.
Posted by trevor at February 17, 2005 07:28 AM