TheBanyanTree: Ignatio (Natcho)

[apmartin at canada.com]

Ignacio (Natcho)

When I arrived at Casa Ayuda, Natcho had been there
less than a year.  Before that, he lived on the streets
of Queratero, a nearby city, until DIF, the government
agency responsible for children and families took him
under their wing.  

Natcho was tall and thin with very dark skin and lovely
white teeth.  When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled.  He
said he was from the coast but he didn’t know which
city.  He didn’t remember his parents and didn’t know
how old he was.  Before arriving at the orphanage, he
had never used a knife and fork, knew nothing of
modesty, and was completely illiterate.  He had never
attended school.  The authorities guessed he was eleven
years old.  

Because Natcho was too old to be in first grade he was
being home-schooled along with all the other children
at Casa Ayuda.  I noticed, however, there was no
priority on education and the children only received at
most five hours of school every week.  According to
Victor, they were following the home-schooling program
approved by DIF.  I was skeptical.  

Alicia and Victor, although caring people, were often
openly critical of Natcho, and frequently spoke of his
bad behavior while he listened.  (In my mind, they
labeled him as a bad kid and he was living up to their
expectations.)  He was constantly being punished for
not finishing his chores.  Andrew and I felt they
expected far too much from him for his age.  He worked
from morning to evening nearly every day, yet he was
never able to finish his assigned tasks and never
received any encouraging words or praise.  

Andrew had problems with him in the carpentry shop,
too. Natcho had little common sense or self control,
and seemed to have no concept of danger.  Andrew
related countless stories to me including the time
Natcho reached over to touch the Skill saw blade to see
if it was hot just as Andrew was finishing a cut. 
Another time, Natcho tried to make toast when the
electricity was off.  (The phone and electricity were
frequently cut off because the bill hadn’t been paid. 
Often the house went for days without propane which
meant no hot water.)  Because the toaster wouldn’t
work, he dismantled it into so many pieces no one could
put it back together again and it had to be scrapped. 
Once, when told to take out the garbage, he not only
threw out the refuse, he threw the entire garbage can
onto the truck.  And there was the time he found a glue
stick and used it to glue Victor’s three-year-old son’s
lips together.  (No one could say for sure if it was
intentional because the glue stick was the same size as
a chopstick and Natcho couldn’t read the label. 
Nevertheless, he was punished.)

It wasn’t long before I had stories of my own to tell
like when Natcho helped me make banana bread and turned
the oven to maximum when I wasn’t looking.  After that,
I realized I had to treat Natcho as I would a toddler. 
Although he had bright eyes, there was something not
right about him.  When I asked Victor if Natcho was
mentally challenged, he told me Natcho had been tested
and the results revealed he had normal intelligence but
was socially backward.  I wasn’t convinced.

In spite of all the trouble Natcho got into, both
Andrew and I believed most of it was unintentional. 
Natcho had been living like an animal on the street,
digging through garbage for food and eating earthworms
to survive and had never been taught any life skills. 
He was having a hard time adjusting to living with a
family, learning socially acceptable behavior and
following rules.  I felt he deserved some compassion.  

One morning I went up on the roof to read a novel and
tan. I liked it up there as I could see for miles in
every direction.  Before sitting I leaned against the
waist-high cement wall that enclosed it and studied the
vista. San Miguel was located in the highlands of
Mexico amongst gently rolling hills and I looked out on
hundreds of brick and adobe buildings with terracotta
roofs.  A light cooling breeze tickled my cheeks and
brought with it the scent of the vividly-colored
tropical flowers that grew in profusion at Casa Ayuda. 
The many church steeples and domes stood high above the
rest of the city, some of them hundreds of years old.

I looked down to Casa Hogar Don Bosch, the girls’
orphanage run by Catholic nuns on the same property. 
Some buildings from the two orphanages abutted but a
fence separated the two locations.  The differences
between the two orphanages were startling.  

Casa Ayuda received little funding and was
deteriorating.  Aside from a tiny landscaped courtyard
with a pond, clusters of bamboo and numerous flowering
shrubs, only red soil, scrub grass and cacti surrounded
the three-story mansion.  A mountain of decomposing
fruit and vegetables from the vegetable program buzzed
with flies in the far corner and occasionally a rat
could be seen scurrying across it.  (The rats at Casa
Ayuda lived very well indeed.)  Casa Ayuda had two
ancient vehicles and neither of them was reliable.

In contrast, the orphanage next door was well-funded. 
Several new SUVs and vans were parked there, the
landscaped grounds were meticulously cared for and
everything was spotlessly clean and well-maintained.  
I recalled my recent visit there.  

Some days earlier, for no reason Natcho shouted insults
and obscenities down at the nuns and the girls. When
Alicia sent Natcho to his room, he bad-mouthed her,
too.  Neither Andrew nor I witnessed any of this and
didn’t know what happened until later in the evening
when I noticed Natcho hadn’t been at the table for any
meals and I asked why. 

(One of the hardest things about Casa Ayuda for Andrew
and me was that we were treated as outsiders and not
apprised of the day-to-day plans and problems.  Our
vision had been that we would become ‘part of the team’
but both Victor and Alicia were poor communicators.  
Even after discussing our desire for more communication
with Victor, nothing had changed.) 

When we realized they were withholding food from
Natcho, we spoke up about it.  Both Andrew and I felt
that was unreasonable punishment.  Because we asserted
our beliefs, Natcho was allowed to eat some leftovers
but Alicia and Victor made it clear they felt we were
interfering.  

After Natcho finished eating, Andrew and I took it upon
ourselves to teach him to apologize.  First, he needed
to speak with Alicia.  She was in the bedroom.  We led
him to door and knocked.  When she answered, Natcho
hung his head and muttered a few words of apology. 
Afterwards we praised him and told him he would have to
visit next door the following day to do the same.

The next afternoon we asked Natcho to change into clean
clothes; it was time to visit the nuns to apologize. 
Before we left, we spoke to Alicia who told us she
didn’t think Natcho would be able to do it.  Andrew and
I knew we were taking a risk he would clam up or say
something inappropriate but felt it was important he
meet the people he bad-mouthed face-to-face. I hoped it
would make a lasting impression on him.  

The entrance was on the next street so we had time to
coach Natcho on what to say.

“Estas un buen muchacho.  No necesites decir cosas
malas a personas. (You’re a good boy.  You don’t need
to say bad things to people.)”  

The sun beat down on us as we walked to the orphanage. 
It was nearly 40 degrees Celsius.  The scorching heat
made it easy to understand why Mexicans seemed to move
at such a slow pace.  The pungent smell of burned grass
stung our nostrils.  Someone had burned off a vacant
lot and it was still smoldering.  I rang the buzzer
outside the girls’ orphanage and spoke into the
intercom explaining to the nun who answered who I was
and why I was there.

“Tengo un nino aqui qui decidio cosas malas a ustedes. 
El tiene alguno para decir. (I have a boy here who said
bad things to you.  He has something to say.”

A few minutes later, a woman in her fifties neatly
dressed in a dark pleated skirt and crisp white blouse
opened the door.  I assumed she was a nun, although I
wasn’t sure.  She spoke with Natcho and asked if he
wanted to apologize there or inside.  Surprisingly, he
said, “Adentro (inside).”   

We followed the woman down a long driveway and into a
small room.  She stood ramrod straight and moved with
an air of authority.  I told her I felt it was
important that Natcho apologize.  She questioned why he
would want to say bad things to the girls and reminded
him they were orphans like him.  Outside, we saw a nun
in a habit leading some girls into the next building. 
The woman we were with left us and returned with about
twenty-five girls ages five to fifteen.  All were
neatly dressed in school uniforms.  Each one greeted
us, introduced herself and shook our hands.  I couldn’t
help but notice how well-behaved they were in contrast
to the boys we worked with next door.  

Everyone gathered in front on Natcho who was seated,
studying the cement floor.  He couldn’t look at them. 
The nun explained to the girls why we were there. 
Everyone waited expectantly but Natcho wouldn’t look at
anyone or say anything.  I wondered if Alicia might be
right.

I took charge.  Taking hold of Natcho’s arm, I
indicated he should stand up.  He did.  

“Es tiempo, (it’s time),” I said with a tone of
confidence I didn’t feel.  I wanted Natcho to know I
believed he would follow through with the apology even
though it wasn’t easy to face a couple of dozen girls
and a nun.  

“Lo siento,” he mumbled and glanced at everyone before
fixing his gaze on the floor again.  It wasn’t perfect
but I was happy.  The nun spoke to the girls and then
offered some words of encouragement to Natcho.  When
she finished, I said, “Gracias madre (thank you
mother),” and we left.  Andrew commented in English how
much nicer and rewarding it would be to work with the
girls than at Casa Ayuda and I had to agree.  

My mind returned to the present.  No sooner had I sat
down and started to read my novel but Natcho appeared,
seeking me out. I lifted my book to show him I was
reading and told him how important it was to learn to
read.  Then, I stressed the necessity of understanding
math so that he would know if he was getting the
correct change when paying for something. I told him I
understood that it was hard for him now but later, when
he was older, his life would be better. 

“No es mucho divertido si personas estan enojado
contigo todo el tiempo (It isn’t much fun when people
are angry with you all the time,)” I said.  “Tu estas
un buen muchacho (You are a good boy.) “Necisites
apprender a escucha cuando adultos le hablar. (You need
to learn to listen when adults talk to you.”

I told him a little about my own childhood and how ‘una
vida buena’ (a good life) was possible for everyone. 

Feeling very motherly, I patted his head. He closed his
eyes.  When he opened them he looked ready to cry.  His
response reinforced my belief that he was starved for
affection. 
I patted my knee.  When Natcho sat down on it, I
wrapped my arms around his stomach and held him, as a
mother would a small child.  Maybe I could fill that
empty place inside of him for a little while.  

I was wearing shorts and he began to rub the sides of
my legs.  I thought nothing of it.  Then he squeezed
one of his hands between his rear end and my lap, and
inched his fingers inward.  For a moment, I felt
uneasy. No, I thought, he can’t possibly be...  I
pulled him closer forcing his hand away and dismissed
it as an accident.  

Minutes later, he tried again and there was no
mistaking his fingers were homing in on my crotch. 
Incredulous, I firmly took hold of his wrist and moved
his arm to the front of his body and held it there.  My
mind was racing.  Like several of the children I had
worked with in Guatemala, there was no doubt that he,
too, had been sexually-abused.     

I found myself speechless and needed time to gather my
thoughts.  “Quiero abajar.  Es demasiado caliente, (I
want to go down.  It’s too hot,)” I said.

When I stood up to leave, he said nervously, “Tocar
aqui es malo.  It’s bad to touch here,” and gestured
towards his genitals.  That paved the way for a talk
with him on sexuality.  I was glad my Spanish skills
were adequate enough to talk about the different kinds
of love and to explain that sexual touching between an
adult and child was not okay.   I asked him if he had
problems with people touching him when he lived on the
street.  “Si, (yes),” he said.  “Mucho. (Many).”

It saddened me to think what life on the street had
been like for him.  I imagined what he might have had
to do in order to survive.  The sad thing was, he, like
many of the children in Guatemala, needed counseling
but it wasn’t going to happen.  Unless, he changed, he
wasn’t ever going to have “una buena vida¨ (a good
life). 

****