Soon half the children in the room lay on the floor with us, drawing
People were already miserable when we took our places, and the misery grew as the afternoon wore on.
The room was lined with faces that were lined with worry, weighted with fatigue. Parents slumped alongside children who sank in surrender or squirmed with as much complaint as their hard lives allowed. Many of the grownups sat with frayed nerves in frayed clothing.
It was 1990, at the Immigration office in Jacksonville, Florida. Everyone waited in the hope of renewing their green cards, so they could remain in the country and work. Faces, posture, voices showed how tired they were. How worried.
We too sat down to wait for our turn at the window. We chatted quietly and read to our 5-year-old son. Unlike many of the others, we sat at ease because I was a citizen, we were married and happy and working and raising our family and did not anticipate any problems getting Christl’s permit renewed. But the anxiety in the room grew. This made the children more miserable. And that made the adults more anxious. Outside, a stifling summer rain beat down.
As children around the room fidgeted and whined, Christl and I exchanged a look of concern, and her look signaled that we needed to do something. Out of the magic bag she packed for every trip, she unrolled a sheet of drawing paper and spread it on the linoleum floor. She handed me markers, then Stefan and I stretched out on the floor and began to draw.
He and I drew together almost every day. We might draw in silence, or we might talk. I might start a drawing and he would finish it. Or vice versa. I might make a drawing, and he might add to it or scribble furiously over it, as his commentary on what it represented.
Drawing was a way we talked about the events of our day, went over things that happened, worked through difficulties, remembered crises or pleasures, created memories, celebrated what we loved.
Over and over, we drew our favorites: The bear that ate an apple. A man we watched spraying water on pigs. We drew fish and alligators. We drew the time Stefan grabbed a pot of coffee as Christl carried him and, while she yelled and danced around, he poured the scalding liquid near her bare feet. Drawings imagined him on a horse, or gave wings to me (and our dogs). Instead of photographs of our travels, we often made sketches.
Now, on the floor of the waiting room in the immigration office we drew to remind ourselves of home back in Tallahassee. We drew our dogs. The rope swing in the yard. The squirrels in the live oak tree. We remembered places to swim. His friends. Favorite toys. The three-hour drive to Jacksonville and the Really Big Trucks that passed us. — The world was alive with interesting things, and a few swift lines on the page could call them to mind again.
While the two of us were engaged in drawing, Christl made eye contact with some of the children seated along the sides of the room with their families. She brought out more sheets of paper, spread them beside us on the floor, set out markers, and signaled to other children to come over.
From a corner of the room where Spanish softly fluttered, a kid who had been standing by his mother edged to where he could look over our shoulders. I heard Christl ask if he would like to draw, too. He sat down next to us, thoughtfully chose a color, and entered the silent immensity of a child with a crayon.
A small shift began to take place in the room. The undertone of misery lessened a little. Something else came in — pockets of silence. I glanced up to see children watching us intently. Two girls stood. While one held back, the other read Christl’s welcome and strode up to ask if she could draw, too.
Out of Christl’s magic bag, more paper appeared, more crayons and markers. In minutes, half the children in the room watched from where they sat, while the other half leaned in close, or lay on the floor with us, trusting Christl as she invited them to join. Soon, most of the children in the room lay on the floor with us, drawing.
From the adults, you could hear a long, deep sigh of relief. Children who moments before had been squeeling and squirming, danced up to their parents with drawings they had made, then danced back to start another. As the paper ran out, they drew between the first drawings. They drew in the margins, then turned their paper over and made new drawings on the back. Adults dug out pieces of paper and children filled them too.
When the children discovered they could keep their drawings, it was as if the rain had turned to riches, and no one would ever lack for anything again. So much happened on those pages.
In that moment, every grownup knew again why they were waiting, why they were applying, why they were working — knew they would endure whatever it took to make moments like this continue to be possible.
Thanks to Christl and her magic bag.
Gerald Grow is a retired journalism professor. More at longleaf.net.