Daisy
Daisy was not there the day I arrived, but she came shortly after. I walked through the gate after being gone for the day and instantly, I saw the new girl. Large, blocky ball cap, jean jacket, and rosary beads around her neck. She greeted me like an old friend, “Heeeyy…” she said as she lifted her hand into the air and clasped mine in an intimate high five.
She fit in instantly, teaching the girls dance moves and singing songs. I could pick her laugh out from across the compound, and I heard it often.
Slowly, I learned her story. Slowly it sank into my reality, and I began to recognize hers. In 2004, at nine years old, her mother kicked her out of the house because she had epilepsy and her mother couldn’t deal with “the corruption.” Forced to the streets she was in and out of shelters and hospitals for years. On the streets, during a seizure, she was raped and nine months later, at twelve years of age, she had her first child, who was promptly taken away from her and left in a shelter. Soon after, she was tortured and raped by a police officer and nine months later, in her thirteenth year, she had her second child, who was also taken away.
On and off the streets
In and out of shelters
In and out of hospitals
She contracted HIV/AIDS
No one wants a girl with HIV and epilepsy
I hold her hand and watch her eyes roll to the back of her head as her whole body shakes and convulses and then lies still. Rolls, shakes, convulses, and lies still again.
In the short time she has been here, she has made true friends, she has proven to be a joyful leader, and she makes everybody smile and feel special. Priscillah, who was “hard as a rock” has melted and tears well in her eyes as the ambulance comes to take Daisy away, alone.
“Will she be okay?” She asks, “Will she come back to us?”
I do not know.
Two days later, Daisy does come back to us. The ambulance pulls up and girls go running to greet her. She steps out with her infectious smile and says, “Heeeyy…” And gives everyone high fives and hugs.
Her medicine doubles, she is dizzy, unfocused and continues to have seizures. I think they have actually increased. The other girls are afraid. They think it is contagious. They think she is possessed. They need education, and slowly they are getting it. Everyone is afraid, except for Priscilla who loves her with her impenetrable strength.
Days pass, hands held, eyes roll back, body convulses, body lays still. As well, we dance and sing and laugh and sit on the stoop doing hair.
Until the day she begins to cough up blood. The “fit” is long but she comes out of it, and we sit in the shade on the veranda. Priscillah on one side, and me on the other. There are no words for the burden she has to bear, so I rub her back and listen.
She begins to speak, slowly and deliberately, taking long pauses between thoughts. “The doctor says I need snacks and milk with the additional medication, but I can’t ask Aunty; I know we don’t have enough.” “Will I ever see my kids again?” “Will I live long enough to be their mom?” “How will I ever care for them?”
And then silence for a long still moment.
She looks blankly into space. “The streets,” she says slowly and to no one in particular, “are hard.”
And what is left of my fragile heart breaks. I sit a little longer, wiping my tears as they leak through my eye lids, watching Priscillah’s eyes glisten. I excuse myself for a warmer layer, and go up to my room and cry. A desperate, life is not fair, I am helpless wail.
I am crying today as I recall this remarkable girl. Despite everything, she is filled with joy, faith, friends, and hope – though sometimes that is fleeting – she is filled with hope in a way that condemns and inspires me.
Our long talks about strength and anger and forgiveness. Her dream of running a dance troupe to keep kids off the streets and away from drugs. Her memory of her children. She is trapped in a reality she cannot change.
Daisy is eighteen years old and she is afraid. Afraid of being rejected again, afraid of never seeing her children again, afraid of being back on the streets again, afraid of the unknown. But despite her fear, Daisy has taught me more about faith, joy, perseverance, hope, and love than I have learned in all my years.
I say your name out loud Daisy, and I dance with your spirit in my heart. May you stay strong my friend, and know, that someone in America loves you.
Daisy was not there the day I arrived, but she came shortly after. I walked through the gate after being gone for the day and instantly, I saw the new girl. Large, blocky ball cap, jean jacket, and rosary beads around her neck. She greeted me like an old friend, “Heeeyy…” she said as she lifted her hand into the air and clasped mine in an intimate high five.
She fit in instantly, teaching the girls dance moves and singing songs. I could pick her laugh out from across the compound, and I heard it often.
Slowly, I learned her story. Slowly it sank into my reality, and I began to recognize hers. In 2004, at nine years old, her mother kicked her out of the house because she had epilepsy and her mother couldn’t deal with “the corruption.” Forced to the streets she was in and out of shelters and hospitals for years. On the streets, during a seizure, she was raped and nine months later, at twelve years of age, she had her first child, who was promptly taken away from her and left in a shelter. Soon after, she was tortured and raped by a police officer and nine months later, in her thirteenth year, she had her second child, who was also taken away.
On and off the streets
In and out of shelters
In and out of hospitals
She contracted HIV/AIDS
No one wants a girl with HIV and epilepsy
I hold her hand and watch her eyes roll to the back of her head as her whole body shakes and convulses and then lies still. Rolls, shakes, convulses, and lies still again.
In the short time she has been here, she has made true friends, she has proven to be a joyful leader, and she makes everybody smile and feel special. Priscillah, who was “hard as a rock” has melted and tears well in her eyes as the ambulance comes to take Daisy away, alone.
“Will she be okay?” She asks, “Will she come back to us?”
I do not know.
Two days later, Daisy does come back to us. The ambulance pulls up and girls go running to greet her. She steps out with her infectious smile and says, “Heeeyy…” And gives everyone high fives and hugs.
Her medicine doubles, she is dizzy, unfocused and continues to have seizures. I think they have actually increased. The other girls are afraid. They think it is contagious. They think she is possessed. They need education, and slowly they are getting it. Everyone is afraid, except for Priscilla who loves her with her impenetrable strength.
Days pass, hands held, eyes roll back, body convulses, body lays still. As well, we dance and sing and laugh and sit on the stoop doing hair.
Until the day she begins to cough up blood. The “fit” is long but she comes out of it, and we sit in the shade on the veranda. Priscillah on one side, and me on the other. There are no words for the burden she has to bear, so I rub her back and listen.
She begins to speak, slowly and deliberately, taking long pauses between thoughts. “The doctor says I need snacks and milk with the additional medication, but I can’t ask Aunty; I know we don’t have enough.” “Will I ever see my kids again?” “Will I live long enough to be their mom?” “How will I ever care for them?”
And then silence for a long still moment.
She looks blankly into space. “The streets,” she says slowly and to no one in particular, “are hard.”
And what is left of my fragile heart breaks. I sit a little longer, wiping my tears as they leak through my eye lids, watching Priscillah’s eyes glisten. I excuse myself for a warmer layer, and go up to my room and cry. A desperate, life is not fair, I am helpless wail.
I am crying today as I recall this remarkable girl. Despite everything, she is filled with joy, faith, friends, and hope – though sometimes that is fleeting – she is filled with hope in a way that condemns and inspires me.
Our long talks about strength and anger and forgiveness. Her dream of running a dance troupe to keep kids off the streets and away from drugs. Her memory of her children. She is trapped in a reality she cannot change.
Daisy is eighteen years old and she is afraid. Afraid of being rejected again, afraid of never seeing her children again, afraid of being back on the streets again, afraid of the unknown. But despite her fear, Daisy has taught me more about faith, joy, perseverance, hope, and love than I have learned in all my years.
I say your name out loud Daisy, and I dance with your spirit in my heart. May you stay strong my friend, and know, that someone in America loves you.