Dear Friends,

I want to be hopeful these days, what with Barack Obama just being inaugurated as our nation’s 44th President, but Tanya and Terry are making it awfully hard. I know I shouldn’t let the problems of two little people here in Walnut Hills undermine my confidence in the potential for global change, but, well…there you have it.

Maybe, if they had given me just a few hours to soak in the pageantry of Tuesday’s ceremony before calling me to intervene in their latest crisis, I could have held onto some of the inspiration I took from President Obama’s eloquent call to responsibility and sacrifice. Instead, those few good words were quickly overwhelmed in my consciousness by the many bad words of the worst mother and daughter combination I know.

On the surface, the situation is simple enough. Tanya is fourteen, looks much older, and desperately craves male attention. Lately she has been running away to stay with the worst kind of older boys. Terry is fifty-something, mentally handicapped and hardened by street life. Thanks to disability payments, she has always provided food and shelter for her daughter, but never much affection. When the girl was little, she kept her inside all day, but she knows that strategy won’t work anymore. Her two older sons are in prison, and she fully expects Tanya to end up the same way or worse. They lived in a horrible apartment until Tanya got raped there last year, after which we moved them into a trim little house. That’s where I found them on inauguration day, fighting after Tanya skipped school and stayed out all night again.

I can’t remember their order, but these are some of the things I heard: I hate you, you bald-headed bitch. I wish I aborted you when I had the chance. Yeah, I got raped again, but we didn’t report it because my Mama said she didn’t want no trouble with those boys. Shut the fuck up, liar. So what if my man tortures me? They gonna lock you up and those girls in there are gonna whip your ass. I didn’t get no love growing up, so why should she? You snuck out, so you deserve what they did to you. Where am I supposed to find nice friends in the ghetto? She don’t care about me. Nobody cares about me.

Did I finally manage to calm them down? Of course I did. Did we make up some new house rules, and arrange for some more counseling? You bet. Did they grudgingly apologize and hug one another before I left. Yes they did, believe it or not. They hugged me, too, after I somewhat indignantly reminded them that there were plenty of people who cared a whole lot about both of them, starting with me. It was a bitter, ugly fight, but it ended well.

So then, am I hopeful now? No. I don’t believe for a minute that Tanya will stay home from now on, or that Terry will touch her kindly again without my prompting, or that some cut-rate counselor provided by the state will be able to help either one of them unload the baggage of two lifetimes of abuse and neglect and ignorance. I don’t believe that the part-time love of our little faith community will ultimately transform them into reasonably good people, or that their transformation will be part of the global change that President Obama – not to mention Jesus – says is possible.

And yet, my hope is not entirely dead. All evidence to the contrary, I believe that somehow, in ways I don’t fully understand, Tanya is better off, and Terry is better off, and even sorry little me, despite the ongoing destruction of my optimism, is better off because I stepped into their conflict that day, and because my friends and I remain in their lives. It may not make the difference between triumph and tragedy, but clearly I believe our love makes a difference nevertheless. Otherwise, I’d be long gone by now.

So then, here is my message to President Obama and to Jesus and to anyone else with confidence in the future of humanity: Don’t give up on me. I am not convinced, but I am still here.

Sincerely,

Bart Campolo