La chiquita mas preciosa del mundo (part 2)
She could hardly squish the careful, elementary school style letters of her name into all the boxes of the forms we filled out. Translate “under pains and penalty of perjury” to Spanish to kid Spanish. “Confidentiality.” “Terms of agreement.” She said it was like school, but not so long. She said, “Don’t let them punish my mama. Tampoco mis hermanas”. She shook violently and writhed her hands. Why would someone do that? “Because I’m… BAD. I’m bad. I’m bad.” Choking on toxic tears that had years to strengthen their poison.
I told her that she can’t be bad if she was not the person with the power. I told her that bad happening to you does not make you bad. What could I say? I’m there for legal purposes. I’m not there to counsel. I’m not there to hug. I leave and their lives go on.
She asked if she can still play with her friends now that she’s different. Now that everyone knows. Some lady in the neighborhood told everyone. There she is,a tiny girl and marked. Violated. Bad. Dirty. They ask her, the other kids, if it’s true. It is true and it always will be.
I told her we were on her team and she was the boss of her own lawyer and paralegal now to defend her. She liked that a lot. She said her big sisters are normally the bosses. The lawyer I work with told her that we could talk about any kind of secret and no one would know, like if her teacher looked silly or if she had a crush. She thinks crushes are gross. She thought my dress was pretty, but too big for her to borrow. I was not offended. She probably weighed 60 pounds.
I want to be the counselor with art supplies and puppets and see her every week like in my college internship, but I guess this is not about what I want. None of it ever was supposed to be. Take a moment to send her your love, please. I believe in that crazy stuff.
