Haskovo Roma
I can’t remember her name. She looked about nine years old and walked up to me while I was at a café in Haskovo, asking for money and if I spoke English. It is usually easy to dismiss the Roma. But, for some reason, I kept talking to her.
She had dark hair streaked with red, a trendy look some spend a ton on, but was no doubt done on the cheap. The pink of her palms and fingers had been discolored black. Closer inspection showed it was not dirt as much as dye. Other than the darkened fingers she looked surprisingly well groomed. At least as much as you can expect from a nine year old regardless the country. The look in her eyes proved she was smart. In her dirty looking, clean hands she held a collection cup she had probably pulled from the trash earlier in the day. We spoke using broken English with broken Bulgarian. Obviously, our chat was cut short by the language barrier. She asked again for money, and I told her we would meet up again the next day to practice her English.
The next day came and I got up early to go and wait for her at the same café. I enjoyed my cappuccino alone. She had stood me up. Minus the blow to my ego, no harm had been done. The rest of the day, I made sure to keep an eye out for her. No such luck. The next day, we were in a rush to catch the bus out of town and she showed up. We talked and she said she was hungry. She was hungry and we were in a rush. She followed us for awhile and we had a chance to catch up from two days ago. Finally, she had to head back, to where or for what I do not know. In that time we had not passed anywhere for me to pick up some lunch for her. So, in the rush, I gave one lev (just over fifty cents). I wonder if she was able to get something to eat, or if the money went to someone else.
The bus ride home I started thinking. (I know, bad idea.) And, after a while, I felt like jumping out the window and hitching a ride back to Haskovo. I would find the girl, knock the cup from her hands, scrub the black off her fingers, and ask for her name. We could grab lunch and go to a movie. I felt like going to GAP for kids and dropping a grand on clothes. In short, not your typical Mark Jackson range of thought.
Once I was done casting myself as the savior, my mind took a turn for something a bit more practical. First of all, why was this little one any different from all the others I ignore everyday? Maybe she reminded me of my nieces. I don’t know. Even worse than feeling bad for this little girl was the realization that she is not alone. How many cute impoverished little ones are there? How many not so cute ones? I don’t know. Do I want to know? I’m not sure.
A friend of mine said something interesting. She said, if the opportunity presented itself, she would do what she could to ‘move the world’ for someone here. Maybe that is the whole idea. Odds are I won’t be saving the whole of Bulgaria in two years, but I would like to do something. I don’t really know what I am trying to say, but I do get the feeling it is going to be an interesting couple of years. I’ll keep you posted.
~~Mark
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She had dark hair streaked with red, a trendy look some spend a ton on, but was no doubt done on the cheap. The pink of her palms and fingers had been discolored black. Closer inspection showed it was not dirt as much as dye. Other than the darkened fingers she looked surprisingly well groomed. At least as much as you can expect from a nine year old regardless the country. The look in her eyes proved she was smart. In her dirty looking, clean hands she held a collection cup she had probably pulled from the trash earlier in the day. We spoke using broken English with broken Bulgarian. Obviously, our chat was cut short by the language barrier. She asked again for money, and I told her we would meet up again the next day to practice her English.
The next day came and I got up early to go and wait for her at the same café. I enjoyed my cappuccino alone. She had stood me up. Minus the blow to my ego, no harm had been done. The rest of the day, I made sure to keep an eye out for her. No such luck. The next day, we were in a rush to catch the bus out of town and she showed up. We talked and she said she was hungry. She was hungry and we were in a rush. She followed us for awhile and we had a chance to catch up from two days ago. Finally, she had to head back, to where or for what I do not know. In that time we had not passed anywhere for me to pick up some lunch for her. So, in the rush, I gave one lev (just over fifty cents). I wonder if she was able to get something to eat, or if the money went to someone else.
The bus ride home I started thinking. (I know, bad idea.) And, after a while, I felt like jumping out the window and hitching a ride back to Haskovo. I would find the girl, knock the cup from her hands, scrub the black off her fingers, and ask for her name. We could grab lunch and go to a movie. I felt like going to GAP for kids and dropping a grand on clothes. In short, not your typical Mark Jackson range of thought.
Once I was done casting myself as the savior, my mind took a turn for something a bit more practical. First of all, why was this little one any different from all the others I ignore everyday? Maybe she reminded me of my nieces. I don’t know. Even worse than feeling bad for this little girl was the realization that she is not alone. How many cute impoverished little ones are there? How many not so cute ones? I don’t know. Do I want to know? I’m not sure.
A friend of mine said something interesting. She said, if the opportunity presented itself, she would do what she could to ‘move the world’ for someone here. Maybe that is the whole idea. Odds are I won’t be saving the whole of Bulgaria in two years, but I would like to do something. I don’t really know what I am trying to say, but I do get the feeling it is going to be an interesting couple of years. I’ll keep you posted.
~~Mark
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