Another Poppy

After I saw my lone poppy, I began to make my way back home. I couldn't resist photographing the other poppies I saw, to the amusement of a Czech man with his daughter. I couldn't understand what he yelled at me, and when I yelled back "mluvim anglicky" (I speak English), I didn't understand why he began running away and laughing. I guess he didn't want to talk to me.

When I had finished taking pictures of what was either a shrine or a very small garden, I walked to the top of the road, about to head back to Bethel. As I was getting ready to cross the street, I looked to make sure the road was clear, the way I was taught in first grade. However, looking 'left, then right, then left again!' doesn't work as well in a country that has roundabouts in every intersection and aggression as a national characteristic.

Thankfully, instead of seeing oncoming traffic, I saw Jarmil, the little girl from the Oasis who had smiled at me during craft time. She was walking home from school, or so I gathered from her English, the book bag on her back and the fact that she was walking over the bridge, away from town. Her expectant face and thoughts about unexpected poppies encouraged me to walk with her. She asked about my family, and I told her that I had two brothers; Jarmil was excited, because she has two brothers also. She didn't know the word for 'older,' so I mimed my brothers' ages by holding out my hand to indicate their height. Jarmil understood and indicated that she was the middle child by holding her hand higher when she said her older brother's name and lower when she said her younger brother's.

We soon exhausted her English and my miming. I took to making sweeping gestures to the sky and river, with a big smile to show that I thought they were good. If I cannot impress these Czechs with my superior language abilities, then I'll leave some other impression. Perhaps I can be remembered as that sweet, slow girl who was always waving her arms around...

Jarmil and I were having a great walk. I was gesticulating and she was smiling. As we reached the end of the bridge, I saw a wild bush of dwarf roses. Jarmil laughed at me as I tried to gracefully pluck a little bud. We managed to pick the flower with three hands, and when I stuck the flower into her ponytail, she smiled at me. When the flower promptly fell out, she laughed at me.

Once my distractions with the flower were finished, Jarmil pointed to the other side of the street, showing she had to cross. I thought to myself, 'This is why I met Jarmil in town. Now I can help her cross this busy street and get home safely. What a good thing, since she is only 9 years old.' But before I could think of myself as the Czech Frauline Maria and decide whether Jarmil was Brigitta or Gretl, she stoutly held up her hand to an oncoming car, grabbed my arm, and marched me across the road. When I tried the same move at the next intersection, she grabbed me again to pull me back from an oncoming car and then demonstrated the proper way to stop traffic. And thus I had another 'Ministry Moment': never be too confident that you're about to help someone, because you can never be sure if you're about to be the minister or the one ministered to.

Perhaps my reputation at the end of the summer will be the girl who was sweet, slow and an idiot at crossing streets.

We had not walked much further when Jarmil let me know that I didn't need to follow her. I found out later that she lives in government housing for single Roma women. That doesn't sound so bad, does it? It almost sounds like a safe, comfortable thing to help the down and out. But you don't need to be knowledgeable about Central European social programs to know what her living situation is like. All you need to know is that she is a triple minority--female, foreigner, Roma. You can connect the dots from there.

I don't wonder why she didn't want me to follow her. I do wonder what I'm supposed to do with this knowledge.