When I was young, my grandparents on my father’s side moved to California. It was part of a great exodus of relatives on my father’s side (uncles, cousins, etc.) moving from Brooklyn to Southern California. This meant we traveled to California by car or train for several summers during the 60’s. Driving in the car for days, bored out of my mind with blankets and nothing to do, can drive a child insane. The train was better. I could smash pennies on the train tracks, watch the toilet open onto the train tracks, and go up to the high-rise section to see the view.
I remember California as a storybook land with perfectly paved sidewalks and streets with no bumps or potholes. Going to Knott’s Berry Farm and Disney, watching a spider catch flies in midair as they flew by, playing with my best friend Penny next door, and playing with my grandparents’ dog in the backyard. Surrounded by people who loved me, it was a childhood paradise. The only negative thing was being forced to eat my grandmother’s pasta fazool, which I hated with a passion. I cried desperately when it was time to go home.
In my early years working with children, these childhood experiences shaped my work with orphans. I was haunted by the simple things. No parent was around to comfort a child when they scraped their knee or defend a kid bullied by others. I had an entourage of parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, extended family members on both sides of the family who loved me passionately. Even as I write this, it’s hard to contain my rage at life’s unfairness. But it’s this unfairness that spurs me on to make a difference in the lives of the kids I work with. “Even a cup of cold water…”