No fun. That’s what I wanted to say to the “mama” of Las Sonrisas San Francisco, the group I was assigned to at the orphanage called La Ciudad de Los Niños. Eight-year-old Carlos and I were having a wonderful talk over our chicken noodle soup about what he had learned that day in math class when Mama came and slammed her tiny hand down on the table. “Come, come, come” she demanded rapidly – Eat, eat, eat! No fun. When we were not-quite finished eating, the cleaning up began. The eight year olds divided up the tasks, some collecting bowls, others cups, others began to sweep and mop the floor. Like clockwork, the dining hall was tidied and cleaned, all by this little army of boys. Mama watched and delegated. Then we drifted to their home, a large room with bunk beds with a center reading area and an adjoining room for homework. Most began their math homework, meaning I began the most rigorous practice in Spanish numbers I had ever experienced. Despite what they tell you, math is neither a universal nor an independent language. Again, Mama banged on the table “Suma, suma” she practically screamed – Addition, addition! The boys clung to me like I was going to float off the ground, two on my lap and one tugging at my sleeve at all times. They were spectacularly intelligent, if you could get them to concentrate for five seconds on their number pyramids. It was all like summer camp plus a little homework, minus the parents you ever went home to. And they were all so happy. How? Did they not know what they were missing? I left that little compound sheltering them from the peril ridden neighborhood surrounding it exhausted but with the firm knowledge that I would be back.
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