December '07
Victoria is a woman whose smile I will never forget. She has stunning eyes and beautiful brown skin- except for the parts that are leathery and callused from crawling on the floor. See, Victoria is from Liberia. She cannot walk. She is both physically and mentally handicapped. Her feet are turned in and her hands are kind of twisted, yet she is strong. She crawls, mainly with upper body strength and uses her speed and momentum to bring her legs forward as she goes.
Her knee hits the floor hard with each move- or what to her would be a step, as she crawls back the dark hall of the handicapped home. She is on her way to the bathroom, which is actually a dirty old shower room. She lays on her back on the floor of the room and attempts to pull down her shorts. More likely than not, they’re not down far enough and she crawls back to the community area soiled, yet moving along with her day.
Her clothes are picked from a musty pile, a pile of old worn out clothes that are also shared among the other men, women and children that are living with her. No underwear, no bra, maybe just some cotton shorts that are too small and an old t-shirt with holes and stains. Some of her teeth are missing, her head is shaved, and there is a deep scar on her forehead. She has one meal a day, maybe some fish in a bowl of rice. In a way, Victoria’s life sounds like that of a dog- but I see a beautiful woman.
Every Saturday morning she anxiously crawls to the porch as a Land Rover full of us from Mercy Ships, pulls into Cheshire Home for the Handicapped. She is beaming and her smile is radiant. As I greet her she firmly grips my hand and says “yeah,” which is one of maybe two or three words she can sound out. Saturday morning is the morning she gets to stay clean because I carry her to the bathroom, and maybe it’s when she gets some fresh new clothes from Mercy Ships. Today is the day she gets to use her imagination as she draws, colors, and sculpts with play-doh. Saturday morning is when she gets to use hand eye coordination as we toss a ball back and forth, and when we can turn on some music and a few light bulbs because we brought some gas for the generator. Saturday morning is when Victoria and I give each other back scratches and it’s when I give her a hand and arm massage with lotion that smells like flowers. I give her a ride in a wheel chair and then I pick her up and we dance. Her smile is stunning, she is a beautiful Liberian woman.
Victoria is probably close to my age, in her twenties. I can’t help but wonder about her life, about her story. I could imagine that Victoria’s birth mother had several other children- most likely to different fathers who are out of the picture. I could imagine that disease and/or malnutrition, maybe prolonged, complicated child birth gave Victoria birth defects and handicaps. I could imagine that around the age of one or two she was abandoned and left for dead in a dirty gutter, in a market place or on the street. She was discarded because of her handicaps, because she was different, perhaps thought to be cursed. Her young, overwhelmed, unemployed mother couldn't’t handle it.
Thanks to God someone found compassion and took her to the home for the handicapped in Monrovia, the capital city. Being in the city was a blessing and a curse at the same time. During most of her life, at least 15 years, Liberia was in a horrendous civil war- the capital being the most heated place of battle. During that time, she and many others around her could’ve came close to starving or dying of one of many sicknesses. Food would’ve been hard to get in this war zone. Water and electricity was probably scarce to none. I can hardly imagine her teen years- bullets whizzing through her building, explosions all around, screams and cries echoing through the streets. She could have been raped, she could’ve been beaten by gangs or rebel soldiers, young men…too young, on drugs, brain washed, and demented. I don’t know if these things are true, but I know it could very easily be a reality in her innocent life.
I wonder how I got to grow up in America and how I got to live on the big white ship- safe from the streets, three meals a day, and a bed to lay on at night. If my finger broke I could get medicine and therapy in an instant. Victoria didn’t receive any therapy for her handicaps, which are much more serious and severe. To this day, Liberia is still very fragile, but thank God the daily nightmare of chaotic civil war is over, hopefully forever. The air is till thick with suffering, dysfunction, and physical and mental wounds, but for me, Victoria’s smile shines and brakes through it all.
-In honor of Victoria. Til we meet again, maybe here on earth. If not, in heaven- can't wait to see you run and dance.
