An orphan's gift
Changes transform an orphanage, in part to one student's determination
By: Ryan Oliver Hansen
Issue date: 3/7/05 Section: News
Once again, the orphans were yelling at Andrea, the most unpopular 4-year-old at the Loreto children's home in Ecuador. Andrea was a difficult child. She was always fighting with somebody. The nuns told me that she was hopeless, and that she was downright bad.
"She's so gross! Look at her! She stinks. Eeeewww, get her out of here," the orphans chastised.
The equatorial sun was scorching as usual, and as always, my tank top was wet with sweat, my hair separated by wet clumps sticking to my forehead. The shiny brown faces of the African-Ecuadorian children were dotted with their perpetual sweat beads.
I briefly looked over at Andrea and saw her legs covered in what appeared to be some slimy food leftovers she found in the trash. She smelled horrible, and the heat intensified the stench. My patience ran out.
I thought to myself, "God, she is such a pain sometimes," as I tried to refocus on putting on the socks of another child. But Andrea persisted-she stood there crying, seeking someone to defend her. "No, not this time, Andrea. I'm sick of you getting into the trash. You know you are not allowed in the trash! I'm telling the nuns and you're going to be in trouble," I said.
She continued crying. I tried to ignore her. After a moment I noticed that she was not covered in something from the trash. She was covered in diarrhea. "It's her own fault," said Sandrine, 5, "because she eats mangoes off of the ground and she knows she's not allowed to do that."
I sat and looked at Andrea for a few moments, pondering our misery. Her cries were now soft, muffling shame and embarrassment. Andrea ate things off of the ground-all the time. She always got into the trash-her favorite treasure was chewed gum.
I angrily dragged Andrea to the orphanage "shower," an outdoor water faucet where the cold, tan-colored river water came shooting out with great force. I placed Andrea in front of the showerhead and shouted at her to strip down and start washing herself. The smell of her infected feces made me gag. She would do the washing, not me.
"She's so gross! Look at her! She stinks. Eeeewww, get her out of here," the orphans chastised.
The equatorial sun was scorching as usual, and as always, my tank top was wet with sweat, my hair separated by wet clumps sticking to my forehead. The shiny brown faces of the African-Ecuadorian children were dotted with their perpetual sweat beads.
I briefly looked over at Andrea and saw her legs covered in what appeared to be some slimy food leftovers she found in the trash. She smelled horrible, and the heat intensified the stench. My patience ran out.
I thought to myself, "God, she is such a pain sometimes," as I tried to refocus on putting on the socks of another child. But Andrea persisted-she stood there crying, seeking someone to defend her. "No, not this time, Andrea. I'm sick of you getting into the trash. You know you are not allowed in the trash! I'm telling the nuns and you're going to be in trouble," I said.
She continued crying. I tried to ignore her. After a moment I noticed that she was not covered in something from the trash. She was covered in diarrhea. "It's her own fault," said Sandrine, 5, "because she eats mangoes off of the ground and she knows she's not allowed to do that."
I sat and looked at Andrea for a few moments, pondering our misery. Her cries were now soft, muffling shame and embarrassment. Andrea ate things off of the ground-all the time. She always got into the trash-her favorite treasure was chewed gum.
I angrily dragged Andrea to the orphanage "shower," an outdoor water faucet where the cold, tan-colored river water came shooting out with great force. I placed Andrea in front of the showerhead and shouted at her to strip down and start washing herself. The smell of her infected feces made me gag. She would do the washing, not me.