In Bolivia, May 29th is Mother's Day, and it is quite an event here. The volunteers hosted a special lunch in honor of the spiritual 'mothers' at the convent, and I tried to encourage the girls to be thankful for their tireless work at the Hogar. We also had a special little program for all of the mothers who work at the Hogar, including dances, songs and skits.
At the end of the program, the Madres arranged for all of the daughters of the workers to bring a gift to their mothers. As I was watching them, I was dumbfounded when an 8-year old girl appraoched me with a gift. I remember just sitting there, half expecting her to figure out she went to the wrong person. But when she did not move, I asked 'Wait, for me?'
I wish I could explain the look in her eyes: she was so excited and proud that she was chosen to bring me my gift - the gift from the daughter to the mother. Besides the excitement and pride of having something to give me, there was something painful behind it all... something that longed to be held, loved and accepted. Almost a pain of actually wishing that I could be her mother. It was a haunting exchange of looks that I don't hope to forget for the truth it held. I gave the girl a kiss, yet felt it so lacking. I could never love this one, (or any of the 134 others) as she deserved to be loved. And as much as I would love to be a mother to her, her mother, there are so many complications as to why this can not be, why I will always lack what I know the girls need.
Later, thinking about her eyes, I was reminded of what a priveledge it is to try and love these girls, to try and be a motherly figure to them. It was weird at first, to be acknowledged as a mother... although at the same time, it felt good to be recognized for a job that is not glamorous or ever 'thanked'.
Shortly after processing this 'surprise', my site partner and I were asked to be representative mothers at a local high school program. It was a really neat little program, as only mothers were allowed in, and upon arrival, we received foam flowers and were escorted by high school boys to our seats (a cute touch I thought). I was pleasantly surprised to walk into a gym packed with laughing mothers. It was so awesome to see these women, much of whose work goes unnoticed, being celebrated, being allowed to enjoy themselves, even being waited on with snacks and sodas. One of our seniors in high school sung a song with a fellow classmate. It was a song in gratitude to 'her mother', and in the chorus it specifically said thanks for 'not abandoning her'. I had a hard time watching our girl sing this song to a packed gym, full of mothers... her classmates backstage... knowing full well that her mother had in fact abandoned her. How could she sing this song? Did she just think of all of the other mothers she was singing to, hoping they were better mothers than her own?
One of our girls also won a raffle prize for her 'mother' to collect. My site partner went up to the stage to collect a basket of flour, oil, chocolates, and other kitchen necessities. It made for quite the photo-op to see a 23-year old, blond haired-blue eyed choquita lugging the big prize around (to the envy of many mothers).
At Mass that night, the priest had a hard message to swallow... (although afterwards in reflection, I knew he was calling us to the Christian response). To a chapel of orphans, abandoned children, and neighborhood children who might have hard home-lifes, he said 'Even if your mother is an alcoholic, even if she left you... you still have to be grateful to your mother because she gave you life'. I had such a hard time with this statement - for its unfairness. These girls didn't choose to be left. They didn't choose to live in a home, and constantly be stigmatized and isolated from the other 'normal' kids. They don't deserve it. At times, in public, it can look like they are lepers or something, as people even sneer and say 'Oh, they're an Hogar girl'.
...And yet they are supposed to be thankful to their mothers for bringing them into this life, where they feel so rejected and unloved by the very blood that made them. How can they love themselves when their families don't even think they are worth the effort? I try and remember how self-conscious I was in high school, all of the emotions and uncertainties of being a teenager... and I had a loving family behind my every step. How much more painful, lost, and unworthy-to-be-loved would one feel? A fellow volunteer and I talked even today... about the difference in deepness of wounds: between being an 'Hogar girl,' and knowing that you are an 'Hogar girl'... Either being rejected by your family or with no family living to claim you, to reaffirm in you the dignity of being human. The older ones know that they were abandoned, that their souls are not whole... a feeling that is only amplified as they continue to be rejected by society.
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