Letter To The Calm Little Girl  

By. Victoria Steele 

 

It was a warm, late August afternoon in South Dakota. The Sioux Tribe Reservation consisted of one block of rundown housing, one school, and three full cemeteries. I met you in the small oasis right outside the reservation, at the Simply Smiles day camp. The camp is equipped with a thriving greenhouse, a basketball court, an archery field, and most importantly, staff members dedicated to instilling a sense of hope in the children who decide to spend their day at camp. I had traveled from Connecticut, half-heartedly, to do volunteer work at the camp, mostly because my sister invited me.  After the third day, my nerves felt raw from the culture shock of witnessing extreme poverty, drug and alcohol abuse, and the effects of these conditions on the young children.  

 

You sat alone at a picnic table under the tall rectangle pavilion with the forest green tin roof. I could tell you were struggling with something. You couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old, wearing simple denim shorts and a soft faded pink t-shirt, your gaze fixed to your lap. Your brown hair was pulled back, revealing the sad look on your face. I approached, feeling a sense of duty to try and help uplift you in some way, but truthfully I felt unqualified for the task.  

 

Nothing could have prepared me for the shocking story that came pouring out of you. After just a few minutes of casual conversation, you told me of the time when your mom was chased around the house by her boyfriend, being threatened with a sharp kitchen knife. Your tone of voice was flat and calm as you recounted him catching her and slicing her hand open. You and your mom ran to a friend's house for help. Authorities were called and the boyfriend was taken away. You told me all of this like it was just a movie. Your eyes never watered, your voice never cracked, and your folded hands never left your lap. You seemed unphased by this brutal act of violence, and that terrified me. If this was something you could talk about without being overcome by emotion, I was scared to imagine the other types of trauma you had experienced. 

 

The sun began to lower. The South Dakota sky seemed so expansive, the flat grassy fields extending in every direction towards the horizon. The big school bus, painted a rusty shade of red, pulled up beside the pavilion to take the children home from camp. I walked you to the door of the bus and wondered what awaited you at home. As the bus drove off, kicking up a swirl of dirt and small rocks, I wandered away from the rest of the volunteers, and crumpled to the ground next to a patch of dry bushes. I couldn't stop the hot tears from rolling down my cheeks. I felt so small and powerless against the magnitude of violence and oppression in the world. I only volunteered with the Simply Smiles organization because my older sister invited me and my mom to experience this good work she found so fulfilling. But I was just a 16-year-old, suffering from a fresh teenage heartbreak and general angst with the world. What good could I offer with my limited knowledge and experience? But maybe just being there was enough, showing up with the intention to do good. Your story reminded me that the way we treat other people has a lasting and wide reaching effect. Every person has a choice, every day, to either be kind or cruel. It is in the way that we live our lives and treat other people that we can enact the change we want to see. I never saw you again, and I doubt you remember me at all. But I remember your story, and I hope in sharing some of your pain with me that it lessened the burden you carry.