An embrace, that extends to outer space

In the best and worst of job situations, it is the little, expected, most taken for granted yet least forgettable moments that matter the most. I have enjoyed being the Program Administrator for BECA in Cofradia-the rewards and challenges have been equal in quantity, but the former far outweigh the latter in terms of impact. I have learned so much about myself as a leader, peer, mentor, comrade, etc. The little moment that makes my heart race the most every day, that I look forward to with utter predictability and cascading joy, is seeing Ayleen run up to me and lock me in a huge, genuine embrace, making me feel like all the sick, belligerent chaos that has engulfed the world is a petty trifle in the face of such singular, unconditional love.

Ayleen is one of a bevy of incredibly sweet, naturally empathetic, and materially impoverished second-grade girls at San Jeronimo Bilingual School. She is quite shy, even around friends she is comfortable with, and has the easy gait and carefree manner of a child truly at peace with the world, despite its immense hardships. She is never observed to be cruel or cold-hearted, and in fact, does not seem to have any ill will at all towards any living thing. For some reason, early on in the school year, I was chosen by this beautiful child, among numerous adults present on the school property, to be the welcome recipient of profound and bounteous hugs. I immediately viewed the fact that I was the chosen one as a sacred honor, as an obvious slice of good karma accrued for nice deeds committed in a past and unremembered life somewhere else, in a faraway place that maybe no longer exists.

Whenever Ayleen and I first see each other on any given school day, she will run towards me with the contagious joy of a winning game show contestant, and I will get into an eager receiving stance, bending forward slightly to better meet her abbreviated height, and we will embrace each other for at least two minutes. We recognize, in that fleeting moment of cosmic connection, that we are probably too good and pure for this fallen planet that we are forced to inhabit. Other kids will take note of our diurnal embrace but will appear to be neither jealous nor disinterested. Perhaps, they just wonder- why Mr. Jon? He is not even nice, why would he deserve a hug like that every day? The kids from all grades are used to seeing me dispensing hardcore doses of tough love, telling them what not to do, trying to keep them safe, and teaching them valuable life lessons all in the same disciplinary action. I have never had to scold Ayleen (except the one time she was scarfing down a choco-banana in the hallway, where she is banned, like all kids, during recess). I would like to think that if she was truly misbehaving, I would objectively treat her like I would any other kid. But I doubt this feeling at the same time. Any adult who works with kids is lying to themselves if they pretend they do not have favorites. Out of the 168 specimens of the future of Honduras that we serve at SJBS, Ayleen stands out like an Oscar winner, for reasons that are at once obvious and unclear.

But why does she see me as so special? I have seen her walking hand in hand with her father, a burly, unsmiling, yet undoubtedly gentle and loving man who accompanies Ayleen to school most mornings. She is not lacking for at least one positive male role model in her life, which is more than can be said for the majority of our students, most of whose dads are trimming hedges, installing electric wire, and washing dishes thousands of miles away, in the country that I came from and often choose to forget. Maybe she needs more love than her dad and mom can give on their own. There is, after all, a quality to her hugs that speaks of a subtle void, a muted emptiness, an understated thirst waiting to be quenched. I do not know what it is, but when she has her plump, eager hands wrapped around my waist, I feel that something is missing in her life. I know I will never be her father, but could wish to have a daughter someday who is her spitting image. Maybe it is not for me to know what this child needs from these daily hugs that is so important- what is important to me, mostly, and this is not an issue of vanity, is that I can fill that mysterious, essential need.

In our embrace, that extends to outer space, there is a need of my own that is fulfilled, one which I can recognize readily without having to scratch for it. It is my insatiable need to be a believer in a society of skeptical nonbelievers, to be hopeful in a realm of utter hopelessness, and to feel selfless in a bastion of unrestrained selfishness. When I hug Ayleen, I feel like more can be possible in the latter-day tragedy that is Honduran society than empirical evidence would permit. This little girl is a beautiful symbol of all that this abused, neglected, self-flagellating, grossly undefined nation could become if radical socio-cultural-economic changes could be made in this lifetime. Ayleen, in other words, is a petite embodiment of the Honduras to-be, and by holding her so close to me, sending out my love for her in a firm, oven-warm grasp, I am embracing the only future for this place that is acceptable. Of course, beneath this lofty symbolism, I also love Ayleen for the simple reason that she is herself.