Lori is my child muse. When life is complicated, I bring Lori to me for her innocence and her simplistic views on the world and the creativity she brings to my work.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”
From the poem ‘The New Colossus’ Emma Lazarus
I turn away from the television, seeing a little boy with a friendly face, curious eyes, and wondering if he has a safe future knowing the kind of violence and fear his parents run from, that I, for the life of me, cannot grasp.
I feel a deep sense of isolation intellectually and mentally. I turn to the confined walls of my study but cannot hear what I must write.
I move to the outside the walls, looking at a universe of stars and wonder who is up there looking down on this misery? I stand looking up on a clear night and wonder who it is who is looking down on the clusters of people being huddled into buses and airplanes in a foreign land and to which they came seeking protection and to once again feel a sense of hope.
Where are we that men trusted with knowing the truth hide behind their lies, with vacuous minds that cannot appreciate the size of their own nation, or how and from who it was taken. I look out at the hills, mountains, and the open prairies that men scarcely know or have explored and wonder if in their own flight, having been forced to live with the enormous pressures that would cause them such fear and unworthiness, would they themselves feel as if they are alien life forms?
“Mr. Harry, is that you? It’s so dark.”
“Yes, Lori. What are you doing out so late?”
“I couldn’t sleep, Mr. Harry, and it’s a beautiful night,” she says, stepping carefully around the pond. “Something was keeping me awake.”
“Awake, Lori. Did you have a nightmare?”
“No, Mr. Harry. Nothing like that. I met another child,” she says sorrowfully.
“Why the sadness, child, didn’t you have fun?”
“I wanted to, Mr. Harry, but he was sad. He asked me if we can be friends.”
“That’s nice, I’m sure you said yes, Lori.”
“Mr. Harry, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, Lori. What is it, child?”
“Mr. Harry, what is a refugee?”
In the moonlight, her tumbling curls of green and a face that glows, reminding me of the yellow-colored lampshade that used to keep me up all night.
I feel myself swallow hard.
“A refugee, Lori? Well, someone who is a refugee is running from tyranny, forced to leave their country in order to escape war, persecution, or sometimes a natural disaster.”
“Is this why Joel, that’s his name, Mr. Harry, asked if I might help him back on his feet again?”
“How old was your friend, Lori?”
“Joel said he is fourteen, but he was twelve when he left home. He walked with his parents from Venezuela. Where is that Mr. Harry?”
“It is a very long way from here, Lori. Venezuela is a country in South America. A very poor country. Children dying because their parents cannot feed them,” I explain.
“Is that why Joel asked me to help him back on his feet? Because he is starving, Mr. Harry.”
“Perhaps, child. There are no medical supplies, no money, people without work cannot exist but on hope, Lori. Hope doesn’t feed children, I’m afraid, so many parents and children are dying.”
“Mr. Harry, he said if I have to go, he will miss me.”
“He’s probably never had a friend like you, Lori. I’m sure he’s lonely, and afraid.”
“Joel said he’s not wanted here, there’s not enough room. We do have enough room, don’t we Mr. Harry?”
“My dear child, that is the song of the old pedal singer, the music changes but the words do not.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Harry.”
How do I tell her America can roll the reels for hours on the subject of immigration and refugees. It should be a question mark on the heart of every American. My dear Lori, how I want to explain to her the relationship between the sun and energy as a food source and how this is the same energy that drives us humans. Have a grown-up conversation with her friend, Joel, that touches on the universe, galaxies, suns, and stars.
But such matters do not concern Lori, she has seen into Joel’s eyes, a kindred spirit and felt a sense of connection and been touched by his sadness, soon to be swallowed up in the mendacity of refugee life and how Joel’s thoughts will be confined to the daily struggle of life in the settlement and the hustle of life that dictates the means of getting a food and shelter in the camp.
“It means we can change how we do things in America, Lori. It means we can demonstrate to the rest of the world how humanity should be, what we should be, proud, compassionate, thoughtful, and more open to open than closed.”
“Mr. Harry, I’m reminded of all we’ve been through, were you ever a refugee?”
“No, Lori, not in the sense that Joel is one. There was always a blue moon shining down on me.”
“Can you make it shine down on Joel, Mr. Harry?”
Oh, my dear one, I think to myself, if she but knew. Cross my heart and hope to die should I be the one to cause a tear from her eye. As a country we are looking through a tunnel, seeing only what we are told to see, rapists, gangsters, instead of people. We have the rapists and gangsters, they are here, as they are everywhere. So, should we judge the majority by the minority? In which democratic country does that happen?
When Lori leaves, I’ll go back inside the walls that confine me, keep me safe, my home, the love inside its walls, and when I stray, I always know I can come running home again.
How can I explain to one so young, not to act as if it doesn’t hurt her, like one who’s getting up from a fall. We are hurting, America, we are stumbling toward a fall. Haven’t we anything left, compassion, room, a willingness to open ourselves to those coming after us?
“I’ll do what I can, Lori. I feel one coming on soon, a very blue moon, shining down on Joel.”
“Okay, Mr. Harry, I’ll be off to tell him. There’s a blue moon coming. Bye now, Mr. Harry, bye now.”
This child means the world to me, she comes in place of ruin, and can magically enhance it. Lori, who can build a violin to soothe one’s heart, and brings the bow with which to mend the broken.
Good night, Lori. Could night, Joel. Sleep well, just once under a very blue moon.
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