Faint rays of sunlight pierced the slats of our roof. It was that type of light that isn’t quite real. The light was punctured by the haze that lay over Xi’an and, well, most other cities in China. Stretching, I sat up from the pallet that served as my bed for the time being. They were all about the same—built for conveniently serving as sleeping quarters for boys of about the ages eight to ten. The other kids remained asleep, but not for long. I knew that the roaring voice of Gang would be startling them out of slumber any minute now. Sure enough, his sharp voice could be heard as he made is way up the stairs, yelling for us to wake up. After all, we had a quota to fill today—and every other day so long as we wished to live with a roof (no matter how slatted and leaky) over our heads.
I leapt up from my pallet, straightening the small strip of cloth that served as my blanket. As if I needed one in this weather. Already, I could feel sweat collecting on my brow and at the tighter parts of my scrappy shirt and shorts. I slipped my dirt-covered feet into thin-strapped sandals and grabbed a small straw hat from next to the pallet. Jamming it on my head, I raced down the stairs with the other children, scrambling for a bag of merchandise I could sell today. The faster down the stairs you are, the more likely you’re going to get a good bag of stuff to sell. Thus making it far more likely to fill your quota for the day. Sometimes I didn’t even get down there in time for a bag. Then, you were really in trouble. Begging was the worst. Grappling with the others, I managed to get the bag with the little Terracotta Warrior figurines. Looks like I’d be doing some trespassing today. However, I guess it could be worse. At least Gang fed us and housed us. I’m not sure what I’d do if I didn’t have him. The occasional beatings are worth a guaranteed living space in Gang’s circle.
After a hurried breakfast, I made my way out into the heat. Upon leaving the house, a blanket of sticky heat enveloped me. The change was instantaneous. My clothes began to stick to my body. My uneven bangs clung to my forehead as I made attempts to brush them out of the way repeatedly. The thick straps of the heavy backpack cut into my thin shoulders. As I made my way down the busy street, my senses reeled with activity around me and my constant need for caution.
Cars whizzed past, coming inches away from grazing each others’ bumpers and horns blared in quick repeated blasts. Jostled by the crowd, I turned the pack around so that it rested on my chest. Protecting the figures was most important. If they broke, not only would I fail to raise as much money as I needed, but I’d be in debt to Gang for breaking valuable merchandise. Clutching the backpack in my arms tightly, I continued to make my way through the crowd of impatient civilians hurrying to their various jobs. And if they weren’t civilians, they were frustrated tourists looking for the next bus stop, the next museum, the next restaurant where they could actually read the menu. The stench of the city rose up in my nostrils, filling them with the smell of car fumes, trash, and sweat. As I made my way toward the museum, I tripped over the expensive shoes of a Chinese businessman. Angry cries followed me as I tried desperately to save the fall. Too late. I flung out my hands to protect the soldiers, and cut my hands on the hot pavement beneath me. Dust rose in my face and I coughed heavily. Scrambling to my feet, I swung the pack once again to my back, feeling those straps rubbing against my already raw shoulders.
The sandals’ soles were too thin. I could feel each and every pebble that I stepped on and the bottoms of my feet were soon throbbing from the hard ground. I jogged the rest of the way to the steps of the formidable looking museum. Despite the early hour, hordes of people were milling around the long walkway to the entrance and at the doors themselves. I made for the parking lot, near the latest cluster of tourist buses. I made for the tall figures of the Caucasian tourists—the easiest targets.
They couldn’t resist the face of a small Chinese boy and his unfortunate position in the field of begging. I reached inside the backpack and drew out a small rectangular box that held about four of the little soldiers. They were cheaply made and upon touching them, black dust came off onto your fingers like soot. I propped open the lid, which was covered with cheap, Asian patterned fabric.
Holding the figures out in front of my (on display if you will), I approached the nearest group of white people. I tapped the plump shoulder of a middle-aged woman. She looked my way grumpily. There were patches of sweat at her underarms and her brow was soaked. I offered the box of Terracotta clay figures and spoke one of the few English phrases I knew: “Cheaper for you, lady. Twenty yuan.” She considered and then shook her head. “Okay, okay, fifteen yuan.” Looking more satisfied, she reached for her purse. The trick with these people was offer a price far above what the actual item was worth. They had no way of knowing how much these things should cost and if they were displeased with the initial price, you were still breaking even at the end of the haggling. She thrust out the correct number of bills and I offered the box. As she made to inspect them closer, I slipped easily into a nearby crowd. Better to be far away while they find out just how cheap the merchandise is that you just sold them.
The day continued in the exact same manner, ten minutes, then twenty, an hour, two hours. The sun rose, it’s hot rays penetrating the smog and continuing to grow warmer. My back was soon soaked in sweat from carrying around the backpack. Mercifully, it was growing lighter as I got rid of box after box of little clay figures. Around noon, I grew brave. Slipping off to the side of the huge building housing the great warriors, I made my way to a row of bushes surrounding a courtyard behind the museum. Struggling through the leaves, I yanked my way through, pulling the pack behind me. This part of the museum was lovely, with small man-made ponds and stone benches off to the side. A large party of white tourists was just exiting the building. A girl walked about the courtyard, chatting animatedly with two other girls, about her age. She had short brown hair, frizzed up in the intense humidity, dark brown eyes, and modest (but nice) clothing. A shoulder bag hung on her shoulder, and she clutched the bottom of it protectively as though fearful that the contents could be stolen. Good idea. She wandered from the other two and I made a quick decision. Ducking out of the bushes, I approached her.
She looked a little alarmed at the sight of me. I’m sure I looked pretty raggedy to her. My patchy clothes were disheveled from crawling through the tight bushes and I was covered in sweat and dirt. My feet were more brown black than tan and I could feel the grime clinging to my face. I held a box of statues before me, repeating my mantra. Her face relaxed, but still had a slightly suspicious tone behind her eyes. As I considered lowering my price, a shadow crossed my vision. A long shadow belonging to an even longer person. Uh oh. The guard swooped down on us suddenly from behind her, arm raised. WHACK! His hand came across my cheek with a resounding slap that echoed across the courtyard. Silence followed. Hardening my jaw, I reached for her outstretched money, pressing the box of soldiers into her hands, which I noticed were shaking uncontrollably. Her sweaty face had turned stoney and drawn and before averting my eyes, I noticed they were filled with tears.
* * *
The little boy disappeared through the clump of bushes, his backpack disappearing with him. I clutched the box of clay warriors in my trembling hands and found I was having difficulty swallowing. What I wanted to do more than anything was throw them as far from me as possible. The guard had disappeared, back to his post no doubt, and my nearest family members had grown silent. The tears began flowing steadily, running down my already moist face. I couldn’t get the image of that little boy out of my head or the noise of the guard’s large hand coming across his face. The boy had seemed so unfazed. Or resigned perhaps. No tears had come and no cries of pain had escaped his lips. The way he had averted his eyes in the end and the way he had trudged wearily off the museum property was too much for me. I could feel the injustice of this child’s life welling up inside me. How could that sort of treatment toward children be tolerated? My mother approached me. She looked at me sternly and scolded my behavior, claiming that this sort of situation was no unheard of. She reminded me of all the stories of abuse present in America. I retorted angrily that child abuse in America happened to be illegal and continued to cry for this poor little boy. Of course there was child abuse everywhere. I wasn’t completely naïve. But the question remained: is it tolerated, or even encouraged, everywhere? I knew that in America striking a child in public was severely frowned upon. Here, however, it seemed perfectly acceptable for this guard to hit this child. A child that wasn’t even his, at that. I spent the next hour at the Terracotta Warrior museum in reflection. Why had this affected me in such a way and affected my family so little? I couldn’t understand the lack of compassion here. I couldn’t bear to see this poor little boy struck for doing something that I’m quite sure he had no choice in. Unless he wanted to starve, that is. On top of everything, what could be done for a situation like this? Knowing very little about politics and foreign affairs, I had no way of knowing how we could help out kids in countries like this where physical punishment was so popular.
So, what if I could do something? Say, end this acceptance of child abuse and labor all over the world. I could make people see that hurting a child is a sickening action and, since children are our future, see how to constructively shape our world’s youth. I realize that goals like this are silly, almost unattainable. However, it is important to have an idealistic picture in my mind. If I were to launch some kind of campaign, I want a dream to strive for. Like Martin Luther King Jr., I can set these kind of goals which may someday be attainable, but right now are just inspiring thoughts.
I know there are some things I personally could do as well, however. Just like how I spoke out against my family, who failed have sympathy for this poor child, I can speak to others how don’t understand that this treatment shouldn’t be tolerated. Starting small, I can speak of the topic only when it is relevant or brought up in a conversation. Later though, I could inspire organizations to raise money and do awareness campaigns about child abuse and children worldwide. I could find speakers who are respected by the public to give speeches promoting awareness of this issue. To truly have plan (and I mean on greater level than my own personal efforts), I feel like I need to start now and see where my efforts take me. Remembering this little boy will always be my inspiration, however. The feelings that I felt when I saw him struck in front of me will remain with me forever and the image of his defeated face as he quickly averted his eyes will flash before me as I work to give this boy and all other children a shot at a better life.
Word Count:
2,109
Pictures:
1) http://blogs.bootsnall.com/old_travel_blogs/rob/archives/man%20swimming%20by%20slum.jpg
2) http://farm1.static.flickr.com/1/258953_583253218b.jpg
3) http://izismile.com/img/img1/20081217/china_beggar_01.jpg
4) provided by author
5) provided by author
6) http://www.worldproutassembly.org/images/martin-luther-king.jpg
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