Muerto

As I approached the library, umbrella clutched in hand, water from the heavy rains running down the cobble stone road sloshing against my boots, I spotted one of my neighbors dragging something up from under the bridge. I reached him and his son just as he plopped the medium sized black pig in the wheelbarrow. "¿Se murio?" I asked. "Si, esta muerto," he answered, dragging out the word muerto in a singsong lament. I asked him how it happened, and he said he didn’t know. "No sé, esta muerto" He’s dead, he sang again. We all three stood there looking forlornly at the chancito lying motionless in the wheelbarrow, rain water loudly spattering against the metal, already collecting in a pool around his body. I’m sorry I said, and then his son and I gave each other a nervous smile, because our relationship is books, futbol, laughter, bike rides far from the world of adults, and this death is out of context. I shivered as I walked away remembering Carolina’s story of how last year a three year old fell in this same creek upstream and drown. We discussed this in the context of how much freedom some of these kids have that come and go from the library, and ever since a mother asked me not to let the kids play on the bridge, I have lived in fear of one of them falling the twenty feet into that rocky bottom. At the time I tried to explain to this mother that it really wasn’t my responsibility- that my job was to care for the library and that I wasn’t there to watch the kids. She didn’t even begin to listen to me- she interrupted and explained more thoroughly why the kids shouldn’t play on the bridge. My United States public educational system understanding of child care, liability, responsibility, and parenting screamed in protest: I didn’t say I would watch all these kids in the afternoon- I didn’t say I would watch your kid -this is a library- if you send them unaccompanied, they are on their own- I am not responsible- but in fact I am. I am the adult that is around. This whole idea that it takes a village to raise a child has more layers than I realized- as I watch the kids ramble around, playing in the fields, buying candy, running, coming and going as they please, I experience a mixture of elation, fear, jealousy, and dread. Their bodies are so strong, and there is so much less fear imbedded in their psyche than in most kids in the states. But what at first appeared as complete lack of supervision, at closer look isn’t quite so. There is the grandma who walks by and asks if her grandsons will walk with her- they are free to say no, but there are the older cousins who live next door around. There is the system of aunts, neighbors, and cousins who remind Mateo to walk home with his sister, or to go to his aunts if his mom is working. I am assumed to be part of this system, but as the number of kids coming to the library has declined, I wonder if I somehow failed in my responsibility to the village. It has come to my attention that many parents send their kids to the library and expect them to stay there for the entire afternoon- not come and go as they please. I have heard rumors of complaints that all the kids are doing is playing, and parents are sending them to the library to learn. This chafes against my understanding of what a library is, but there has never been one here before and so it must be what is needed, what will be used. I am accepting that I am responsible for the kids who come, and that it is up to me to structure their time to be safe, productive, fun, and feasible for those of us who work here. As I look back over the deaths that passed through our little barrio this month (whether caused by poison, virus, bacteria, or act of god has never been determined, but puppy Cooper did survive), I am glad that the toll has only included two dogs, one chicken, and two pigs, and left the children alone. As my neighbors wheeled their black chancito back to their house, I hoped that it really was the last death in this streak that has passed over our little corner of the town.