A Needy Bunch

A handful of Americans wanted to visit the orphanage and gained permission to do so after much string-pulling. The director insisted on being there when they came to supervise the visit. I was so excited when they arrived, but only a few of the really sweet kids who were not locked in the backyard were around them as the director took them on a tour of the facility.

I walked with them through the orphanage as they looked at empty rooms that the director showed them, but the whole time I was trying to think how I could get them permission to go where the kids were outside. A couple in the group asked about a boy they had met last year, Johnny.

“He’s outside,” the director said.

Almost without thought I found myself saying, “I could take my guitar outside. We could sing with the kids, and they could see Johnny. I could get some instruments for the Americans to use with the kids? “ I looked at the director. “What do you think? Would that be okay?”

When the director consented I ran to collect the tambourines that spent their hours locked up in room, unused. I grabbed my guitar and one American girl passed on the tambourines to the Americans.

As soon as we approached the gate to the back yard, the kids ran towards us screaming. They were shouting unintelligibly, so excited to have visitors, and from the drool on their shirts and their pushing each other, you could tell they were a needy bunch.

One worker yelled at me, “Marilyn! Tell your friends to come in quick and not hang around the door or else the kids will run out.” Once the kids get out of the backyard they can no longer be supervised, which is quite dangerous.

I yelled in English, “Come in, quick so the kids don’t run out!”

I wondered why they waited.

I forget how intimidating these “children” (many of them actually adolescents and teens) can seem.
In the end, two of the men entered. Kids surrounded them. One adolescent girl was walking around topless. Nobody knew what happened to her shirt. Bogdan hit the guitar as though it were a baseball, using his instrument like a baseball bat. Then he twisted the tuning strings, making the guitar out of tune. I sang a few songs (before Bogdan twisted the strings) and then yelled for the Americans to go. They left slowly, one by one, so that the kids wouldn’t notice them leaving. I continued playing, but nobody was really excited about the songs now.

Looking back, it was a complete disaster. The workers chastised me for bringing the group. Somehow the instruments were broken or stolen and Bianca couldn’t stop crying for about an hour after they left, because she wanted the visitors to come and hold her. Bianca has received affection primarily from visitors. When they come, this eight-year-old fights to get the attention and affection of just one.