Trevor's Blog: July 2006 Archives

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July 31, 2006

Posted by trevor at 06:32 PM | Comments (4)

July 30, 2006

Pinky

It sickens me to the core when innocent children are killed and injured during war. Thinking about this takes me back to South Africa during my compulsory stint in the army:

The little African girl was no more than three years old. She was brought to 'One Military Hospital' in Voortrrekkerhoogte, South Africa, after being injured in a landmine explosion on the border between Angola and South Africa.

I was in the same military hospital after having knee surgery.

The doctors told me to stay off my leg for a week while I recuperated at the hospital. (Which suited me just fine because I did not particularly want to go back and join my unit for Coin Ops (Counter Insurgency training) in Deeredepoort.

I lay around for two days then got restless. I was bored out of my skull.

I seconded a wheelchair from a guy in the ward and started wondering around the hospital making mischief. It wasn't long before I found the children's ward.

That's where I saw the little girl. She had been injured by shrapnel from a landmine, which exploded after some kids found it in the veldt, and started playing with the device.

Her body was bandaged from head to toe. All that was visible was her face and her pinky finger.

I couldn't speak her language but I stuck around because that adorable little pinky finger sticking out of the bandages just got to me.

I popped in to see the little girl every day. For some reason I was drawn to her and found myself compelled to visit. (Often falling asleep in the wheelchair alongside her bed.)

I felt so bad for her because she just lay there without showing any emotion. I can only imagine the shock she was in.

I had my girlfriend Vicki buy a teddy bear, which I wrapped in some bandages that I 'borrowed' from the nurses station.

I took the bear to the girl's room.

I gently placed it on her chest.

She put her arm around the bear and pulled it toward her.

She looked down at the bear and then up at me with those big, brown, sad eyes.

I held up my pinky finger and waggled it.

"Pinky," I said, pointing to the bear and waggling my finger.

"That's Pinky."

The little girl didn't respond.

I pointed at the bear and waggled my pinky finger again.

Still no response.

I was fine with that. She was very sick and in a lot of pain.

I leaned over and squeezed her little pinky as I got ready to go back to my ward.

I moved the wheelchair toward the door and turned back to wave.

I paused for a second because I could have sworn I saw a smile tickle the edges of her mouth.

And then something beautiful happened.

The little girl waggled her pinky finger.

Posted by trevor at 01:52 PM | Comments (4)

July 27, 2006

What would happen if we substituted rockets, bombs and bullets with love?

Posted by trevor at 04:05 PM | Comments (3)

I spoke with a wonderful little boy yesterday who is battling childhood cancer. I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. This amazing little six year old said, "If I grow up I want to invent something that helps little kids not to be scared."

His statement filled my heart with hope. Especially considering the terror and fear that kids in the Middle East must be facing right now, no matter on which side of the conflict they are on.

May God shield their tiny bodies from harm and bless their little souls.

Posted by trevor at 07:17 AM | Comments (5)

July 23, 2006

I was spring cleaning my mind today and I found a powerful memory lying in the bottom of one of the boxes in the 'Early Childhood' section of my Memory Department.

I unfolded the memory and found myself in Johannesburg, South Africa on the corner of Kloof and Grove roads. I was five years old and enjoying a walk with my African nanny Esther. (Esther was a large, cuddly Sotho woman, who was very generous with her hugs and warmth. I always felt safe with her.)

It was a beautiful afternoon and Esther was holding my hand as we walked. The sky was a deep blue and the Jacaranda trees were draped in a patchwork of purple blossoms.

As we walked along the street and chatted to many of the maids who were sitting on the grassy sidewalks on their lunch breaks. Ester knew almost every person we passed on the street. I loved to listen to the passionate chatter, even though I could not understand what Esther was saying because she was talking in Sotho. I was having a great afternoon nonetheless.

Then everything changed.

A yellow South African police van screeched to a halt beside us. Two police constables jumped out of the van and started chasing a number of maids who got up and tried to run away when the vehicle arrived.

Both policemen had ‘sjamboks’ (whips) and they were hitting the petrified women.

Esther and I watched in horror as the police rounded up five or six women and threw them into the back of the police van.

Esther put her arms around me shielding my eyes from the goings on. Then she started slowly edging away from the van.

I tried to look over my shoulder. “What are they doing?” I asked, bewildered.

“The maids don’t have pass books,” said Esther, turning my face away. “Come, we must go quickly.”

“I don’t have a pass book,” I said.

“You are white,” said Esther. “Us black people need passes to be in this white area.”

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s called apartheid,” said Esther, “Phakisa., phakisa.” (Hurry, hurry)

“But why is there ap…app...whatever it’s called?” I insisted.

“Apartheid. I think it’s because God forgot about us,” she said, making a sign of the cross.

“Hey you!” came a voice from behind us. It was one of the constables. “Stop.”

Esther froze.

“Let’s go,” I urged.

“Haai eh-eh. God help me,” said Esther, grabbing my hand and breaking into a run.

“Ek gaan jou moer as jy nie stil staan nie,” yelled one of the policeman (I’m going to beat the hell out of you if you don’t stop.)

Esther stopped and faced the policeman.

“Waar is jou donderse pas, houtkop?” said the constable, in Afrikaans. (“Where is your pass, wooden-head?”) (A derogatory term.)

“My pas is by die huis,” pleaded Esther. (“My pass is at the house.”) “We can fetch it.”

“Moenie kak praat nie, houtkop. ” said the constable. (“Don’t talk crap, wooden-head.”) “You don’t have a bleddy pass. Jasus, you people make me sick. Lock her up Poena. You people will never learn. You can’t just walk around here without a pass.”

The policeman grabbed me by the collar and lifted my on to my tiptoes. He brought his face to within two inches of mine. His breath smelled bad. I turned away.

“Look at me when I speak to you, donderse Engelsman” he said. (Damned Englishman.)

I did.

“You seem like a nice boy, so just *&%# off home and don’t let me catch you here with her again. Okay?”

But she’s my nanny,” I cried.

“Ag shame,” said the policeman, cuffing me upside the head. He had huge, rough hands with sausage fingers. I remember my ear smarting after he hit me.

“Oww,” I cried.”

“Don’t be such a bladdy baby, man,” said the constable, shoving me away.

“Leave him alone,” yelled Esther. “Trying to pull away from the grips of the second policeman.”

The constable grabbed Esther and half pushed, half threw her into the paddy wagon. I saw her grimace as she scrapped her knee on the threshold.

The door slammed shut trapping Esther inside.

“You can’t leave this boy here by himself,” she shouted through the mesh bars. He is only five years old. His house is far.”

“That’s the problem with these damn English kids, they are spoiled man. He needs a little lesson in survival. What do you say hey Poena?”

“Laat waai,” said Poena, the second constable, getting into the van. (Let her rip.)

They drove off leaving me standing on the sidewalk.

“Go straight home,” yelled Esther out of the back of the van. “And cross the road by the light. Only when it’s green.”

I lived almost seven blocks away and I ran all the way home and told my parents what had happened.

My father had to pay a fine to get Esther out of the Norwood Police Station, which he did and he brought her home. (She had bruises on her arms and her legs from being hit with the sjambok.)

I hugged Esther so hard when she got back. I didn’t want to let her go. I hid my face in the dark and comfortable folds of her dress where I always found safety and solace as a young child. I was hoping that embracing her and showing her my love would help me get rid of the vision of pain and humiliation I saw on her face when the policemen threw her into the van. (It never went away. I can still see it all clearly in my mind today.)

Esther and her family were arrested a number of time after that, but they always returned as if nothing had happened. (I still feel very guilty about not being able to help her and others who were continually humiliated during that disgusting time in South Africa’s history. Many of us hid our heads in the sand at the time and I’m very sorry about that.)

Esther died before I was old enough to understand and acknowledge how grateful I was for her unconditional caring.

Esther, if heaven has a high speed internet service and you happen upon my blog and get to read this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking care of me and protecting me when I was a vulnerable and scared little boy. I will never forget your kindness.

Posted by trevor at 09:35 AM | Comments (4)

July 22, 2006

"I wonder sometimes if we ever give God a headache."
- Dantaye Hall 8

Posted by trevor at 02:38 PM | Comments (1)

July 18, 2006

I have a young five-year old friend who is going through cancer treatment right now, When I visited him at the hospital last week he was feeling awful. I told him about the time I saw a bird poop on a policeman's head in Paris. I said that the bird did it on purpose because the policeman was being mean to some people who were sitting with their feet in a fountain. It was such a hot day and the people were just trying to cool off, but the policeman yelled at them to remove their feet immediately. A few seconds later, the policeman harrumphed, adjusted his cap and walked away. Just then the bird used the top of the policeman's hat for target practice.

Splat.

You should have seen the policeman's face!

Chris laughed so hard he forgot - for a few minutes - how bad he was feeling.

He asked me to come back and tell him the story again the next day.

I did.

Again he laughed, throwing his bald head back with delight.

It was so heartwarming to see.

Laughter is such a wonderful gift and a great medicine.

We should use it more often.

Posted by trevor at 07:06 AM | Comments (4)

July 14, 2006

Compassion

I am so sad.

Today I was driving along one of the main streets in Austin. For some reason I noticed an old man shuffling along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. It's uncanny, but as I passed him, the old man caught his foot on the bottom edge of a trashcan and tumbled to the ground.

I stopped my car but could not do a u-turn to get to the old man's side of the road because there were too many cars passing me in the left lane.

As I waited to turn I kept my eye on him. To my horror, NOBODY stopped to help him. There were a number of people walking on the sidewalk at the time but they just walked around him.

It was disgusting.

A few minutes later I finally managed to get across the road and safely park my car. The man was sitting against the trashcan when I got to him. He didn't have much strength and was not able to pick himself up.

"Sir, are you okay?" I asked.

"I'll live." He said, smiling. "A little banged up, that's all."

As I s crouched alongside him two women walked past us and looked down at the man with disgust. I heard them talk as they walked away.

"Poor old drunk," she said. "They shouldn't allow them to look through the trash like that."

The women turned the corner without looking back.

The old man shook his head. "I don't even drink," he said. "I'm just an old fart who wobbles when he walks. It's a bitch getting old."

I asked him if I could take him to the hospital, but he reassured me he was okay. I helped him to his feet and we checked to see if he had any broken bones.

All seemed well and I offered the man a ride to his next destination. He declined but thanked me profusely.

As I went about my business today, the image of the people walking around the fallen man and ignoring him totally has stuck with me.

What happened to compassion?

What happened to caring about others?

Today's incident reminded me of an act of kindness I will never forget.

I was in the army.

I heard the scream before I even saw the woman. There was blood all over her. She came running out of the mud hut waving her hands like a woman possessed.

There were sixteen of us sitting in the back of the Bedford troop truck. We were exhausted after a day of machine-gun training at the firing range near Potchefstroom in South Africa.

We had passed many little huts with thatched roofs where countless African workers were relegated during the apartheid era.

The driver stopped the vehicle so suddenly that most of us fell off the side benches and slid onto the floor.

I don’t even remember scrambling off the truck, but I found myself along with my friend Colin Abrahams (who sadly passed away a few years later), trying to calm the woman down.

She was too hysterical to speak but kept gesturing toward the hut.

Colin and I looked at each other and without thinking, rushed through the door…

The scene that greeted me is permanently burned into my mind.

On the floor of the hut lay a writhing woman also covered in blood.

As we reached her she let out a long haunting scream that shook my entire being. She reached beneath the bloodstained sheet that was covering her.

Then I saw something I will never forget. A squiggling mass of mucus and blood in her hands.

“She’s just had a baby!” yelled Colin.

“Get some water,’ came a calm voice from behind me. “I’ve done this before.” It was our instructor Bombardier Kasper Heunis. Neither Colin nor I could move. We were in total shock.

“Maak gou,” he yelled. “Ons het nie die hele donderse dag nie.” (Hurry up. We haven’t got all damn day.)

The lady who first came rushing out of the hut and was now standing behind us, suddenly dashed out of the door and came back with a pail of water.

“Wag buitekant,” barked Bombardier Heunis. (Wait outside.) He pushed both Colin and me out of the door.

We stood outside, two nineteen year-old soldiers with mouths agape. The rest of our contingency joined us and we all waited.

A few minutes later a smiling Bombardier Heunis appeared at the door. Wrapped in a tattered towel and cradled in his arms he held a brand new baby boy.

The woman or the child might have died if Bombardier Heunis decided to let the problem be someone else's problem.

In today's world it seems the more we have, the less compassionate we have become, and that makes me sad.

Posted by trevor at 09:48 AM | Comments (4)

July 11, 2006

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July 06, 2006

How Can You Go To Bed With An Elephant In Your Head?

I watched a story on television last night about the herds of elephant that are being wiped out in Africa. It brought to mind an unpublished book that I'd like to share:

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July 05, 2006

Back To Basics 2

"Kiss me when I'm bad. That's when I need it most." - Maura Stewart 9

Posted by trevor at 11:36 AM | Comments (2)

July 04, 2006

Back To Basics

"People are supposed to make mistakes. That's why we have erasers." - Britt McMahan 8

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July 02, 2006

Old School

I was at the National Education Association conference last week and happened to be standing next to the Google booth as two elderly ladies walked by. They looked to be in their seventies and were finding it hard to take in all the information these giant conferences throw at attendees. They stopped in front of the booth and one of the ladies pointed to the Google logo.

Their conversation tickled me. It went something like this:

"What's Google?"

"What?"

"What's Google?"

"It's a search engine."

"A what?"

"A search engine."

"What's a search engine?"

"I don't know."

They both shrugged and shuffled off down the isle.

Posted by trevor at 04:53 PM | Comments (2)