For All the Brianas of the World

It was an idyllically beautiful September day in Seattle. The park where my husband, daughter, and I had taken our two-year-old grandson Cole had a clear view of the city buildings, in addition to being outlined in the early morning light by an array of autumn trees gently showering down their leaves. I watched as Cole swung high in the kiddy swings and thought how blessed this child was to be loved and adored by two mamas, two dads, five grandparents, a nanny, her boyfriend, and a host of cousins and other relatives.

I did not notice the little girl who hovered around Cole and Kimberly for a while. I wondered for a moment if she could be alone in the park, but then I noticed them: the caregivers. They were young but seemingly hung over. She was a bleached blond young woman, and he was an African-American with baggy pants. Both seemed to be smoking pot. They were stirred from their reverie only slightly to hollow at the child once, "Don't do that; that's not your stroller." The child bragged to us that she had chocolate milk with her as a treat. I asked her what she had for breakfast, and she seemed not to know if she had eaten breakfast. Kimberly started feeding both her and Cole some Elmo crackers she had brought along with her. The girl seemed ravenous and ending up eating the majority of them. She said her name was Briana.

I would like to think that Briana was an isolated case in Seattle, but I am not that naive. Having felt somewhat neglected myself as a child being brought up by a mother who was often absentee due to her work schedule, I tried to imagine Briana in fifteen years. Would she be able, perhaps through some mentor, to get herself on track and move to a productive life? Or would she become one of those who sit in front of drugstores and theaters asking, "Can you spare some change?"

Navigating Through the Flotsam of Life

Since our book club completed Marilynne Robinson's Gilead in the spring, I have been anxious to read her first novel, written some twenty-seven years ago now, entitled Housekeeping. It focuses on the story of two sisters who must, of necessity, navigate through the flotsam of life in order to survive.

Their grandfather, a railroad man, dies in a spectacular train accident in which the train sinks entirely into a glacial lake. Their mother deposits her small girls, Ruth and Lucille, on the front porch of the surviving grandmother's house and drives her car off a cliff. For a while the grandmother is able to care for the girls; then she dies leaving the care of the girls first to her own maiden sisters who cannot cope with two growing girls and later to the care of her youngest daughter, who is a transient. As the girls move into adolescence, Aunt Silvie's actions and neglect become increasingly bizarre. She collects magazines, cans, and bottles in the house as well as thirteen or fourteen cats. How can these girls survive in this maze of neglect?

It seems the younger girl, Lucille, is awakened to the fact that redemption comes in the form of education. She sets upon a plan for herself to sew her clothes, comb her hair, and leave home to live with her Home Economics teacher. Ruth, on the other hand, succumbs to the waywardness of her Aunt Silvie. Together they burn the old house down, catch a train, and resume a life of wandering.

Once more this story reminds me of the hundreds of children in our society who also live their lives as if they were "minimally existent." They are neglected by their caregivers, live solitary lives, and either become hopeless like Ruth or at best develop a plan to escape like Lucille. Again I am reminded of the importance of adults who care for and mentor these neglected children. Let us seek ways to assist these children through our volunteer efforts but, most importantly, our love and concern.