“Two local artists did this for us. The Sturm Foundation has great programs supporting the arts and two of their alumni offered to come and do it. They’re all flowers and birds indigenous to Latin America.” She beamed with pride at that. “The kids and families love it.”
I nodded as I leaned in to look at some of the flowers. “It’s beautiful art.”
“It is. We wanted to make the space bright.”
She pointed in the direction of two big doors. Through the window we could see kids in what looked like a huge gym. “That’s our all-purpose movement space. We have different kinds of classes in there, everything from yoga to martial arts. We use movement as part of our therapy.” She pushed the door and placed a finger over her mouth. I expected it to be super loud but when we walked in there were two groups of about fifteen kids on each end of the gym doing what looked like yoga and meditation.
We stepped to the side, our backs pressed against the wall as we observed them working on their poses. “All our instructors are trained in working with trauma survivors and have adapted their classes.”
When she spoke, I felt the vibrations of her words all the way down to my feet. I felt so close to out of control whenever Julia was near. I’d spent so much time over the years getting as much of my life in check as I could. Especially in my relationships. I usually ran as fast as I could as soon as I felt like I was starting to need anyone too much. But with Julia, I just wanted more. To ask more, to say more.
“Deep breathing can be a real lifesaver for kids that need to get their emotions under control. It got me through the last couple years of high school.” I said it casually, even though usually giving away even the most minimal inkling about my past or my family was a hard no. I cleared my throat, still avoiding her eyes as I talked. “It’s great that you’re doing this with them. With poor kids, even when people are trying to help, the focus is always on food, or clothes, if they have a place to live. And don’t get me wrong—I know how necessary all those things are. It’s just nice to be seen as more than a problem to solve. For someone to remember you need oxygen in your lungs too, you know?”
I expected pity when she looked at me. I almost hoped for it because that way she would just become one more person who saw right through me and I could put the wall up.
She smiled instead, her eyes locked with mine. “We love a relaxation-technique enthusiast,” she assured me with a nod, and turned to open the door. She kept our speed brisk, her eyes on where she was taking me next.
I should’ve let it go, but it was like my mouth couldn’t stop if Julia was around. “Sorry for the overshare.”
She came to a dead stop and turned to give me a look that was meant to be stern but just made me want to run my fingers through her curls. “Are you kidding? I’m a social worker and Latina. Overshares are life.”
That pulled a surprised laugh out of me. She grinned in response, her expression smug, as if it was exactly what she was aiming for.
She started walking again and I quickly followed as she filled me in. “Seriously though, your observation was on point. Our program tries to address the material needs and educational needs as much as possible, but we work a lot on getting the kids to be more mindful and learn how to cope with the many stresses of their lives. Some of them are just dealing with too much.” She came to a stop in front of another door and we stood looking through the glass square into what looked like an art class.
“This is an art therapy group. All the kids in this one came across the border on their own and are living with foster parents or relatives. They are each working on a collage of what they left back home.”
By now I’d figured out that going into the rooms would be disruptive, which was why we just took a peek from the glass on the doors. I peered in to watch about ten kids of different shapes and sizes sitting at a big table topped with lots of crafting supplies, talking and sharing. Some were showing their creations to their friends as two adults milled around the room, keeping an eye on the group.
“You are doing great things for these kids, Julia,” I said sincerely, feeling almost emotional at how at ease the kids looked. How peaceful it was and the way there was something for everyone. It was like she’d thought of everything.
She tipped her head up to look at me, not smiling exactly, but she looked relaxed. Like she trusted I could clearly see what she was trying to show me. “The collages and the breathing, all that stuff matters, but mostly we just want them to have a safe space for a few hours a day. Someplace where their needs are listened to and taken seriously.” She shook her head as we stepped back from the door and she guided us down another hallway. “And don’t get me wrong, most of the caregivers and parents we work with are amazing and love and support their kids. There are just a lot of pressures in their lives. Life-and-death stuff sometimes, so we hold space for them here and we know that matters.”
“It does.” I had another overshare on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully Julia cut me off.
“You know what? Let’s go to the playground. We can talk some more out there.”
By the time we got out to a semi-enclosed space that seemed to be a climate-controlled playground, I’d gotten my feelings back on lock. I’d seen this type of space in Texas before. An outdoor area that they could keep somewhat cool in the summer months.
“This is nice,” I said, pointing at the climbing wall.
Julia beamed as we walked to a cluster of tables on one side. We passed a few kids as we went, and she stopped and said hello to each of them by name.
Once we were sitting, she handed over the folder she’d had in her hand. “Here are the figures and reports you requested, but if there’s anything else you need to know, I’m available.”
I was going to ask about the figures. I was going to ask about the reports. I was going to keep things as professional as possible. “I want to know what it is about this work that keeps you smiling.”
She seemed surprised at my question, but the way she set her shoulders told me she had a very good answer for me. And I couldn’t wait to hear it. “It’s where I found my voice, and believe me, I was dragged kicking and screaming.” She fluttered a hand in front of her face like she was trying to figure out a better way to explain. “My dad’s a social worker too.”
“Ah.” I definitely could not imagine wanting to follow in my own father’s footsteps.
She shook her head, laughing at my very serious tone. “It was annoying growing up with a therapist, but he’s also the most decent man I know. He is a warrior for those who need it, and along the way I discovered I wanted to do that too.” I nodded like I could relate and let her keep talking.
“And this is sort of a dream,” she twirled a finger in the air. “In the nonprofit world it’s almost unheard of to be able to work in a well-funded program, much less one with people who really get that kids need more than just a meal. So yeah, what we do changes lives, and I’m proud to be a part of it. Also my mom owns a hair salon in Forest Hills, so it was either social justice or Dominican blowouts for gentrifiers.”
We both busted up at that. We laughed so hard some of the kids looked at us like we were nuts.
I grinned as her laugh turned into a low chuckle, then pointed to the mass of curls framing her face. “Wow, a mom with a Dominican hair salon. This is a truly rebellious choice.”
