a fond, simple story

(I should explain to new readers that "my" girls in 3.10 are girls that I sponsor. I visit, take birthday gifts and Christmas gifts, and just spend afternoons with them. They are beautiful and amazing. They hold a very large piece of my heart. If you click on the 3.10 label at the end of the post or in the sidebar, you can read their story. I have not yet received a referral.)

I've been thinking about a snip of a conversation that we had with the girls while we were having tea and cupcakes Saturday. (Marina was surprised that we shared teabags. I am a pro at this by now--steeping just long enough to tint the water brown before passing it on.) Marina asked if I'd made the cupcakes. "Of course," the girls and I replied. They've gone from surprise that I'd baked on my first birthday visit, to boasting on my behalf to newcomers several visits later, to now resting in fact that I do this for them every time. I really like that, actually. It sounds like they're taking it for granted that I'd make something for them, expecting this to happen. I am so glad! It's nice to be taken for granted in this way. It's nice to be expected and trusted.

Marina asked the girls if they cooked. They said no, that they didn't get cooking lessons until eighth grade. She asked them something else about cooking and it was explained to her that cooking was not allowed in the orphanage. (extrapolate the "filling may be hot" warning on mcd's apple pies and tint it with Russian bureaucracy)

Then their caretaker told a fond, simple story about potato salad. One time, she said, she'd helped the girls to make potato salad. It was all very secretive, which I can only imagine added to the delight. After they'd made it, she said, they all ate as much as they wanted. Usually, she explained, they were only given a small amount. But that night they could have it all.

Writing this makes me teary. It's not just the simple delight in a meal cooked and shared. I can see their eyes gleaming as they lick sticky fingers. I can hear their stifled giggles and loud admonitions to one another to be careful, to be quiet, to not make a mess. I am sure that Vera, my little monkey, dropped something and crinkled up her shoulders, smiling, while the others rushed forward to affectionately scold her and relieve her of her duty. I can smell the vinegar. I wish I'd been part of that feast! I would love to have seen them so full and happy, full of love and adventure and potato salad.

The fact that these girls, who are 8-13 years old, don't cook has a far greater significance than I realized when I first heard the story. When I heard it, I tucked it away in the part of my heart that holds their histories. But it rattled around in there. It niggled. And I realized, driving home, that it couldn't simply be tucked away because it was more than history. It wasn't the same sadness that engulfed me this time last year when I gave K her first lotion, (read it if you haven't) but it was similar.

The niggling came not from regret that this self-made feast had only happened once in their lives, but because this little story showed how unprepared my girls are for the real world that is facing them in just a few short years. They don't know how to cook. They don't know how to do laundry. They don't know how to shop or handle money. They don't have the life skills that they'll need to leave the orphanage and succeed.

And, oh, how I want them to succeed. (When teaching Shakespeare, I tell my actors that long vowels--especially those on their own like "ay" and "oh"-- release emotion. Read that again. It's a groan, a moan, a sigh, a cry.) And, ohhhhhh, how I want them to succeed.

There is one program here in St. Petersburg that I've heard about (though there are rumors that it's defunct) that helps eight girls each year who leave the orphanages to live outside an institution. I'll let you know what I find out about it.