Heather

After college I volunteered for Big Brothers, Big Sisters in New Jersey. My Little Sister was Heather, 10 years old, and I was chosen to be her Big Sister because I was in shape and could run pretty fast. The case worker said Heather was very active, and had a tendency to run away.

I was living with Mr. Full-of-Himself, aka College Boyfriend (one of these days I'm going to have to make up some good fake names for all my exes). Heather and I played at the park, hung out at the apartment, went to horse shows in the area. Shortly after, College Boyfriend broke up with me, and I moved an hour east. I drove further every weekend to pick Heather up and be with her. I wasn't about to cut off my relationship with her just because my life was in upheaval.

Heather was tiny, very skinny, with light brown hair. I made her ride in the backseat of my car because I was afraid the front seat airbags would hurt her if I ever got into an accident. She would make me tune to the hip hop stations and we'd sing along to Ride Wit' Me by Nelly, hands pumping up in the air: "Hey, must be da money!". Then she'd ask questions:

"Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? What do people have to do to get into heaven?" Heather asked. "What happens when somebody dies? What happens to their bodies?"

Heather's mother had passed away when she was six. Her father told her that her mother was sick in the hospital and was not coming home. "My mom is sick. We can't see her," Heather would say. She did not attend her mother's funeral. I suppose her father thought he was protecting her and her little brother by spinning this story: that her mother was still alive, but unable to see them. I wanted to tell her the truth, that her mother was dead, and that the best thing Heather could do was to discover the kind of woman her mother was when she was alive. But it wasn't my place to tell her. It was her father's.

I would bring Heather to her house after a Saturday of running in the park or drawing with markers or cooking or watching Spongebob Squarepants. Her father would immediately talk to her in a loud, harsh voice: "Heather, did you get into the iodine and make a mess? What are thinking when you do those stupid things? Have you done your homework yet or am I going to have to take away your movies?"

I wanted to back that fucker in a corner, punch him in the face, and when his butt hit the floor, explain to him that when he talks to his daughter like that she feels like she's been punched in the face. But I didn't.

The whole year I spent with Heather, I never once heard her father give her a positive or encouraging word.

Heather's bedroom was small, the walls painted bubble gum pink and her bedspread a lighter princess pink. She had a pink television in her room where she watched videos. Her little brother, about six years old, also had his own television. I got a glimpse of the family evenings one day when I hung out with Heather in her room. She watched her videos alone, her brother watched his alone, and their father sat in the living room, watching T.V.

Heather's father worked on Saturdays, and so I picked her up from her babysitter's house often. There were six children there in a Jersey tract house. It always smelled of cooking, but not of delicious things like weekend French toast or fresh bread, but of onions and cloying boiled meat.

Heather had a wicked sense of humor, and yes, she did run away. But I was fast enough to catch her and creative enough to plan activities so that eventually she stopped trying to run away. I taught her about bugs and how they are not all icky, but actually pretty cool. She soaked up positive encouragement.

I wasn't a perfect Big Sister. I lost my temper with Heather several times, when she would run from me at the park, or when she would refuse to talk to me because she thought I was making up an unfair rule.

After a year I decided to move to California, to be with my new Post-Doc Boyfriend (which didn't work out either). I felt guilty for abandoning Heather. She was used to it though, and treated my departure in a much more casual manner than I could muster. Before I left, she and I created a poster: WHAT I LOVE ABOUT HEATHER. We listed ten wonderful things about her, like how smart she was, how great her sense of humor was and how creative she was.

I hope she found another Big Sister who hung around longer, who recognized that Heather needed praise and love. I hope she still has the poster. She would be 19 years old now. I hope she holds the men in her life to a higher standard, and doesn't find someone who treated her like her father treats her. I hope she believes in herself, and maybe she's in college studying something that really interests her.

I compare my time with her to raising The Kid now. I see how The Kid flourishes under praise, and how discipline is so much easier when you tell a kid what to do, rather than what not to do. I wish all parents would recognize this, especially Heather's father. Last night while I rested my exploding elephant pregnant feet, my husband played with The Kid outside in the sunshine, making up one of his games where a Viking protected the cheese from fire-breathing dragons. The Kid is confident, loved.

Heather, I hope you have found confidence and love, wherever you are.