The children went home today. Where has the year gone?
I feel a mix of emotions, concern for the children, fear that one or another of them won't make it back, relief at the tangible peace and quiet, relief that I made it this far in one piece (my consistency having been in doubt a time or two).
Besides all the parents streaming to campus to fetch their children, there were more families seeking admission. They were all disappointed to hear that we'd already chosen the new students for this year, and that they'd have to try again next year. Some wouldn't believe me. One young mother spoke enough English for me to understand. She said that her husband drank and did drugs. He couldn't hold down a job. Would I please, please, please take her child? I was her only hope. What were they going to eat?
(All of the marriages here are "arranged marriages." A girl who doesn't have enough money to come up with much of a dowry has to resign herself to marrying someone less than desirable. More often than not, that is spelled d-r-u-n-k-a-r-d).
But our classes are full and we've already established a waiting list. By "full," I mean that I've capped the classes at 20 or 22. All of the other schools in our area cram at least 40 children into each classroom. 60 is common in government schools. What's better, educating a few as well as we can, or rescuing twice as many from virtual illiteracy?
An hour later, a leprosy-affected father arrived with his daughter. He was missing not only his fingers, but parts of his hands. The girl is starting 7th grade this summer, but has been in a Tamil school and doesn't know English. Our incoming 7th-graders are already so weak and needy, having been severely neglected for the first few years of their education. Shouldn't I focus on them? Do I have the energy or personnel to help a child at that age who can't even read English?
They had traveled six hours by train to come and talk to me, and I had nothing to give them.
Then another young family showed up. The mother only had one arm, having lost the other from an electrical shock. Would I admit her two sons, even though the classes were full and the deadline long past? They didn't put up much of a fight when I told them there wasn't a lot I could do. They are used to disappointment.
I feel a mix of emotions, concern for the children, fear that one or another of them won't make it back, relief at the tangible peace and quiet, relief that I made it this far in one piece (my consistency having been in doubt a time or two).
Besides all the parents streaming to campus to fetch their children, there were more families seeking admission. They were all disappointed to hear that we'd already chosen the new students for this year, and that they'd have to try again next year. Some wouldn't believe me. One young mother spoke enough English for me to understand. She said that her husband drank and did drugs. He couldn't hold down a job. Would I please, please, please take her child? I was her only hope. What were they going to eat?
(All of the marriages here are "arranged marriages." A girl who doesn't have enough money to come up with much of a dowry has to resign herself to marrying someone less than desirable. More often than not, that is spelled d-r-u-n-k-a-r-d).
But our classes are full and we've already established a waiting list. By "full," I mean that I've capped the classes at 20 or 22. All of the other schools in our area cram at least 40 children into each classroom. 60 is common in government schools. What's better, educating a few as well as we can, or rescuing twice as many from virtual illiteracy?
An hour later, a leprosy-affected father arrived with his daughter. He was missing not only his fingers, but parts of his hands. The girl is starting 7th grade this summer, but has been in a Tamil school and doesn't know English. Our incoming 7th-graders are already so weak and needy, having been severely neglected for the first few years of their education. Shouldn't I focus on them? Do I have the energy or personnel to help a child at that age who can't even read English?
They had traveled six hours by train to come and talk to me, and I had nothing to give them.
Then another young family showed up. The mother only had one arm, having lost the other from an electrical shock. Would I admit her two sons, even though the classes were full and the deadline long past? They didn't put up much of a fight when I told them there wasn't a lot I could do. They are used to disappointment.
How heart wrenching! It must be so difficult to turn people away. I don't envy you that responsibility. When you see so many people suffering, it must be hard to not be able to save them all, which is obviously impossible. Keep focusing on all the good that you are doing and the many lives that you have touched.
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