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A Rekindled Heart: Helping the Needy Stokes a Teen's Soul
By Jennifer Meyer
Issue 121, Nov/Dec 2003
School has never been an arena of ease and confidence for my son, but three years of middle school all but sucked his spirit dry. As a child, Jesse had a tireless, contagious enthusiasm for life and a sparkle in his eyes that could blind you. As a teenager, his natural exuberance faded to surliness, his charm replaced by sarcasm. I watched helplessly as friendships he made faltered and fell, as his grades sank lower with each term, as his hair changed from bowl-clipped brown to bleached buzz to spiky green to blue to pink to black. By spring of his eighth-grade year, he was sullen, apathetic, and loathed himself. He claimed to hate school and almost everyone in it. Even on the warmest days, he wouldn't leave the house without a black hooded sweatshirt. When I picked him up after school, I would watch him float through the boisterous crowds shrouded like the Grim Reaper, eyes forward and down. He would slide low into the front seat, his only greeting a grunt. If I tried to initiate a conversation, he'd snap "Just go!"
Outwardly, I cursed this child-snatching thing called Adolescence and wondered where it had hidden my son. But I knew, really, his heart was still strong. I glimpsed it when his face blossomed at the sight of a kitten, when he squatted low to talk to a baby in a stroller, when he railed against the cruelty of others, defending the defenseless. I think it was the very sensitivity of his spirit that forced him underground at school, where differences are condemned and any show of compassion labels a boy a "faggot."
My partner, Kate, and I had met with the school staff and teachers repeatedly. I e-mailed Jesse's teachers weekly about his assignments. We tried rewards. Threats. Counseling. We sat at his side while he did homework. Still, his grades and his attitude scuffed bottom. With only two months left of school, I was ready to .homeschool him. Then I came across an opportunity posted on a local website: "Volunteer in an Orphanage in Thailand."
The idea seemed ridiculously impossible, but something about it grabbed me. When I mentioned it at dinner, half joking, both Jesse and Kate responded excitedly. Kate has always believed that the cure for a bad adolescence is an introduction to third-world disadvantage. And Jesse was thrilled at both the chance to travel and the idea of working with orphans. Every day after school, he harangued me: "Have you called about that orphanage yet?" I saw a sparkle reappear in his eyes. Timing was crucial. It was only a matter of months before this fog of sullenness would become a wall of hostility, and Jesse would balk at the idea of traveling anywhere with his parents.
I'm not ordinarily a spontaneous person, and I had never felt inclined to travel to Asia, but something about this opportunity drew all three of us like a siren singing on a misty sea. Before I knew what was happening, everything had fallen together. Within two weeks we had made arrangements with the orphanage's local contact, I had scheduled a month's paid leave I was due from work, Kate had arranged an unpaid leave from her job, I'd found shockingly cheap airfare on the Internet, and we'd gotten an enthusiastic blessing from Jesse's principal and teachers. Within two more weeks, we were on a flight to Thailand.
It was after midnight when we arrived at our Bangkok hotel, but the streets were alive with neon lights and crowds of easygoing people, both locals and travelers, who eyed us with genial curiosity. The warm, heavy air pressed against my winter-timid skin with a startling intimacy. Pungent aromas drew us to a line of food carts, but when we saw one cart of pleasingly displayed heaps of roasted insects-cockroaches, beetles, crickets, maggots, and more-we opted instead for spring rolls at a nearby restaurant.
The next morning we met our orphanage guide, Jake, who took us around Bangkok. We went to the Grand Palace, where we stumbled, heads back, mouths open, ogling searing golden spires, sparkling mosaic statues, elaborate murals, and intricate roof designs. We shopped in a street market and ate pad Thai at a sidewalk cafe. We took a ferryboat with a group of saffron-robed monks, and rode in tuk-tuks, the three-wheeled motor carts used to maneuver tourists through traffic. Back in our rooms, escaping the sudden afternoon rain that poured in sheets off the roof, we indulged in in-room massages for a mere $4 apiece.
The following day we rode two hours on a bus to Pattaya, where we found accommodations waiting for us. The Redemptorist Center is a pastoral oasis in the midst of a choking city, guarded by a toothless gatekeeper operating a hand-cranked gate. Fan-shaped palms, orchid gardens, koi ponds, and fountains surround the administration buildings and the Retreat Center, where we stayed. Our rooms were small, clean, and functional, with a pristine spareness that reflected both the abstinence of Catholicism and the simplicity of Buddhism. Even so, by Thai standards, they were luxurious: Each room had an air-conditioner, a phone, a tiny refrigerator, a handheld showerhead next to the toilet, and-to Jesse's great approval-a portable TV with cable.
We ate that night in the dining room, where we would have all our meals at the Center, filling our plates with stir-fry and rice, salad and exotic fruit. On the tables were pitchers of cold water and, for napkins, rolls of toilet paper housed in crocheted covers. We sat with a group of people from Australia, Korea, and Zimbabwe who were preparing for a conference at the Center on theology and global health. Later that week, we would watch the Center swell with 80 more people from all over the world, each glowing with credentials and inner vision.
In the morning, Jake took us to the orphanage-a 15-minute walk from the Center. We left our shoes on a shelf at the gate and entered a covered porch where two and three year olds played. They swarmed us immediately, clutching legs, reaching up, charging at us in plastic vehicles. But Jesse was the one who really caught their attention.
Foreigners are a common sight at the orphanage. But a pale, skinny, 14-year-old boy with braces on his teeth is an oddity. They circled him warily, eyeing him as if he might be some sort of hybrid between them and us. Then the ringleader, a fiery-eyed little girl named Duangjai, stepped forward and, with a mischievous grin that filled her whole face, slapped hard at Jesse's bare leg. She stepped back and waited to see what he would do. Jesse looked at me, perplexed for a moment, then looked back at Duangjai, tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and let out a growl and yip-yap that sounded exactly like a ferocious Chihuahua.
The shrieks were deafening as the children scattered like startled fruit flies. Then they regrouped and charged at him with playful vengeance. They pounded his legs and backside, pulled at his arms-anything to elicit more barking. Kate came to the rescue with a bottle of bubbles we'd brought with us. Jesse was able to keep the children at bay by redirecting their furor at the bubbles until we could all slip through the door into the Baby Room.
The Baby Room is a large room filled with 30 cribs, housing infants as small as three-pound preemies and toddlers up to 24 months. The littlest ones doubled up, cordoned off by rolled blankets. Older ones wandered the room, on knees or bare feet, sometimes clutching a coveted toy. Many slept. Many peered over the bars of their crib, scanning the room for willing arms. Many cried.
We held back, hesitant, unsure of rules and expectations. Despite the large screened windows and ceiling fans, the room was stifling hot. The noise of crying, laughing, and talking reverberated off the linoleum floors. Several "baby nurses" moved about the room without looking at us: changing diapers, patting backs, watching a soap opera on an old TV. "Just do whatever you feel comfortable with," our leader said. He picked up a baby who was crying and reaching into the air. "The nurses don't speak English, but they're used to volunteers coming in all the time. Hold them, play with them. If they're wet, change them. There's very little you can do wrong."
That was it? No introduction to someone in charge? No communication with other staff? No rules or expectations? Not even any guidelines for when to pick up a child or how to intervene in baby squabbles? In America, you would never presume so much leeway over someone else's charge. You wouldn't even offer a child candy without first checking with her parent. But here, even the most obvious rules-don't wake a sleeping baby, don't give hard candy to a toddler-did not appear to be in place.
Timidly, I approached a crying toddler and held out my hands, half expecting rejection. But the boy immediately stopped his crying and nearly leapt into my arms, wrapping limbs around me monkey-style. I forced myself to ignore the smear of snot and tears on my shoulder and molded my arms around his perfect brown-skinned body. I looked around the room and saw Kate beaming, a baby in each arm. Jesse was playing peek-a-boo through crib bars. When the baby reached out to be held, Jesse stepped back. "Go ahead. Pick him up," I urged. Jesse shook his head with a guarded look. He preferred, that first day, to keep some distance, and spent most of the morning playing tag with a little girl in a walker. It was only when a nurse put the walker away and set her on the floor that we realized the girl had cerebral palsy and couldn't walk, crawl, or even sit on her own. She would lie on her back and scoot herself headfirst until she smashed her skull into an obstacle. Jesse tried to steer her clear of crib legs, but, frustrated and angry, she threw herself into a temper tantrum, and no one could console her. The nurses finally let her be, stepping around her flailing body.
I watched Jesse watching her-feet kicking, nose streaming, voice hoarse from rage-and thought of the tantrums he had had for years. How after he'd gone over the top, there was nothing we could do but wait it out. How attempts at reasoning backfired, and even the gentlest touch would be flung back in our faces. Kate and I would sit on the floor, as near as he would allow, and wait for that breaking point when fury crumbled to sorrow and our arms were once more welcome refuge.
Jesse eased himself cautiously to the floor near the girl and wrapped his arms around his knees. Resting his cheek on his knee, he watched her intently, his face a screen of sympathy and calm. After a while, her cries changed to hoarse wheezing, and she twisted her head around to look at Jesse. "Hi," he whispered. She lay quiet at last, her eyes fixed on him, until a baby nurse reached down and scooped her up.
We were hooked. Every morning after breakfast, we walked to the orphanage and stayed until lunch. The toddlers on the porch greeted us with wild enthusiasm each day, the girls clamoring over Jesse like groupies on a rock star. He tolerated it with patience and humor, but was always relieved to escape to the Baby Room, where the charges were less aggressive with their affections.
Jesse grew more comfortable holding the babies-as long as he didn't have to change them-and was great at feeding bottles to the little ones. He took on the job of Official Bubble Blower, both for the babies and the toddlers on the porch, who scaled the barred windows like monkeys, shrieking at the sight of him and begging for more. But his favorite time was spent with Kalaya, the girl with cerebral palsy. Propped against him, she could sit up and view the action around her contentedly. With his support, she could stand on flexed toes and even take some steps. He watched a physical therapist work with her one morning, stretching her leg muscles and bending her knees, and thereafter he did the same with her. He began to see a change in the length of time she could stand without crumpling, and was convinced that, with enough time, he could teach her to walk.
Kate and I had our own favorites we were falling for. Mine was a girl about nine months old, Sureerat, who had arrived the first week we were there. She cried for hours, and, like Kalaya, was left to her own misery when the nurses could find no way to console her. I strapped Sureerat to my chest, in a baby pouch we'd brought with us, and carried her all morning, even as I changed diapers and fed bottles. She fell into a tentative quiet, sustained only by my touch. From that day on, we were bonded.
Kate loved them all. She moved through the Baby Room with the confidence and grace of a doting maître d': checking diapers, propping bottles, wiping noses, changing crib sheets. She loved getting there early enough to feed the toddlers breakfast, which involved squatting on the floor and spooning porridge from a large mixing bowl into the open mouths gathered around her. She couldn't stand to hear one crying baby, and could soothe even the most fervent bawlers. When there were numbers of them, she'd settle herself on a floor mat and adorn herself with the bundles we brought her, feeding one, rocking another, making faces at a third: one big heap of happy babies.
The baby nurses, who at first eyed us warily or ignored us completely, now greeted us with circumspect affability. They repeated for us the babies' names, which we tried to master but always mispronounced. They showed us through gestures how to prop bottles or massage a gassy stomach. And they tried not to laugh at our inept diapering (we never could master the one-pin technique that is standard there).
Each day we trudged "home" through the midday heat, exhausted and emotionally dazed, grateful for the lunch that awaited us. Our afternoons were our own. We usually rested after eating, greedily soaking up the air-conditioning, waiting out the torrential thunderstorms that arrived and departed like clockwork. Then we might explore Pattaya. We could walk 15 minutes to a busy street where we could catch a songtao-a small pickup truck with covered benches in the back-and ride to the tourist area by the beach. There Kate could get a Starbucks fix, I could e-mail friends at an Internet café, and Jesse could scour the street vendors for the best prices on souvenirs.
Jesse's favorite place was the Royal Garden Mall: a modern, Western retail heaven complete with movie theater, Sizzler's, fast food, piped music, and a Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum. This was Jesse's escape to the familiar, and he would have gone there every day if he could have. A US dollar goes far in Thailand-he was amazed at what his allowance could buy. We had hoped that going to an orphanage in a third-world country would break Jesse's relentless fixation on consumer purchases, but Thailand was an endless sea of bargains that were hard to pass up.
We explored the area in short forays. We went to a botanical gardens and zoo, visited Buddhist temples, drove go-carts on a racetrack, and fed fruit to wild monkeys. One weekend, we took a boat to a nearby island where the beaches are not polluted, and rented a hut for the night. Kate and I lounged in beach chairs under the palms and watched Jesse leaping, gleeful, through bath-warm waves.
These adventures balanced out our time at the orphanage, which remained our primary focus. We grew more attached each day to the radiance that dawned on the orphans' faces when they laid eyes on us. We had originally planned to spend the last week of our month traveling in northern Thailand. Jesse had researched treks on the Internet before we left, and was set on a tour that took us by foot, elephant, and bamboo raft through the jungle. But when it came time to make the arrangements, he changed his mind. He didn't want to leave the orphanage. None of us did. With one precious week left and all of Thailand to explore, we found ourselves clinging to what was feeling more and more like home.
After three weeks, we were finally starting to acclimate. We had memorized each landmark on the nearby roads. We knew which dogs would stop barking when we hissed at them, and which ones to avoid by moving to the opposite side of the street. Knew when to hold our noses to avoid the overpowering stench of durian, a large, ugly fruit sliced with machetes and sold from truck beds. Knew the name of the woman who sold us sodas and anti-diarrhea tablets from the tiny roadside drugstore, who was so proud to know some English, and was ecstatic when we told her how much the $100 bill her sister in New York had sent her was actually worth. ("Only one . . . " she had said sadly when she showed it to us.) I had finally mastered a few basic words in Thai, whose tonal subtleties are so hard to grasp. We could make our way around the city with confidence and had discovered wonderful restaurants to alleviate the monotony of the Center's buffets. And the Center staff and baby nurses were treating us less like foreigners and more like distant family. We were growing to love this place.
There is in Thailand a pervasive feeling of acceptance. On the most tangible level, it's seen in the openness of sexual trade-less seedy than in America, and not stigmatized by shame-and in the tolerance proffered to gays and transvestites. "Lady-men" walk freely around the town, and it's not uncommon to see a softspoken man in heavy makeup working the counter at Burger King, for example. But on a deeper level that I, a foreigner and non-Buddhist, can only begin to recognize, there is an underlying sense of serenity, a welcoming of life that is simply absent from our culture. We saw it in the way people met our eyes when we walked down the street: nonprocuring, noningratiating, nonjudgmental. Just a simple, curious openness-a willingness to, for one short moment, share a glimpse of souls.
I felt all of us change in Thailand, as our pace slowed and we began to live for the moment and not for the dream. But in Jesse I watched a metamorphosis. For four weeks, there were no peers to impress or to hide from, no friendships to vie for, no insults to dodge, no homework to fight over. I watched his heart reappear, unhindered by defense, and it is one of the kindest hearts I've seen. More than anything, I think, our time in Thailand gave Jesse permission to be kind. In a culture where gentleness is a given, in a setting where compassion is immediately reinforced, he didn't need the armor he had constructed around himself, layer on layer, over the years.
Our last days at the orphanage were wrenching. Jesse begged to extend our stay, but we had jobs and bills waiting for us back home. Had we come even close to meeting the strict criteria enforced for adoption, it would have been hard not to call dibs on at least one of those orphans. We settled instead on sponsoring my favorite, Sureerat, the little one I had carried next to my heart on her arrival and had then watched blossom over the weeks. Jesse volunteered to donate half of his weekly allowance to sponsor his two favorites: Kalaya, the girl with cerebral palsy, and Duangjai, the toddler who had whacked him that first day and fiercely laid claim to him every day after.
We arrived home in time for the last two weeks of school. I was sorry to see Jesse's sweatshirt hood conceal the wild mop of dark curly hair, which had finally been allowed to grow naturally. But when I attended the slide-show presentation Jesse gave as part of his arrangement for passing grades, I noticed that he pushed it off his head when he began to talk-describing the distinct personalities of the orphans he had photographed, recalling the neon-lit nightlife and the girls who called him "handsome boy," imitating the sound of the bullfrogs that reverberated every night and the din of starlings in the trees at sunset, and explaining how the barefoot monks are revered with offerings of food and water as they walk the streets at dawn. A certain cool bravado still tempered his enthusiasm, but his face glowed with a calm he had brought home with him, and when the lights came on, he responded to his classmates' eager questions with a swelling confidence, eye to eye.
There is a kind of endorphin, I think, that is released when you give your heart to others, and it is as addictive as that felt by runners. I doubt scientists could measure it, but it's there all the same. I crave it like chocolate. I want to go back. We all want to go back. I'm sure, somehow, we'll find a way, because if I've learned anything from our time in Thailand, it's that for every branch you encounter in your path, there are a hundred others you never see.
For more information about teenage sons, see the following articles in a past issue of Mothering: "Building Bridges to Adulthood," and "Initiating Our Teenage Sons," no. 67.
Jennifer Meyer lives with her partner of 21 years in Eugene, Oregon. They have two sons, 20 and 16. Jennifer's first novel, Missing Pieces, is awaiting publication. She is working on a second.
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