A Question:
Would you pay a Mexican immigrant who speaks some broken English six bucks an hour to watch your children for 12 hours a day, 5 or 6 days a week?
Now An Unrelated Story:
(I have really agonized over whether or not I should post this story. At first, I really wanted to, to get it off my chest, but the more I delayed, the less I felt like it was necessary. But still, it hung over my head. I have thought and thought about the experience, and turns out I am going to post it, but not just for the sake of the story - rather, because it was really a big learning experience about the culture here and about myself that I'd like to share.)
A fourth grader who was riding his bike home from school was hit by a car right in front of our house the other day. I heard it. I did not see it because I was not looking in the right direction, but I was outside, and I heard it. It sounded like a metallic pop. I knew the sound as the sound of two cars colliding; when I lived in my second apartment in Austin, a car flipped over right outside my balcony, and it made the same metallic popping noise as it rolled over and over down the street. So when I heard the noise, I knew it was a bad sound, but I assumed it was two cars hitting.
I had just pulled into our driveway, and I was getting the kids out of the car. This is a long process for us. Everett can get into his seat belt by himself, but he still needs help to get out, and Lawrence and Catherine are not self-reliant at all yet. So getting out takes 10 minutes. I got out, walked around to Lawrence's side, unbuckled him and while he was sliding out, I walked back around to Catherine's side, reached in to the very back to let Everett out, and then I was standing next to the car lifting Catherine out of her seat when I heard the pop.
"Oh no," I thought. "A wreck. That's not a good sound. I know that sound. Maybe it was something else."
I walked back around to make sure Lawrence had headed toward the garage, and I looked over into the road. There, in the middle of the road, was something that looked like a pile of rags.
"What is that?" I thought. "I looks like somebody dumped a bunch of clothes or rags into the street."
Then I remembered the gardener who walked just behind our car as I was getting Catherine out. I had nodded to him and said hi because I wanted him to know that I saw him and he was too close to us. (Mama bear instincts kick in when these eastern people do not give enough personal space.)
My internal monologue went something like this: "Oh my gosh, is that the gardener?! What happened? I see a head! That is not a pile of rags, it is a person! Did that person get hit by a car? Is that what the noise was? Wait, it is a little person! A child! Is that a child? No. There are three adults standing in the road. It must not be a person because nobody is doing anything. Surely if it was a person, someone would be helping him! But I see a head! It IS a child! There is a child in the road! Face down, a child in the road! That child got hit by a car! That was the pop! Oh my God!"
At this point, I am standing by my car with Catherine on one hip and a boy on either side. Thank goodness Mike was already home for lunch. I ran inside and threw open the door and shouted out, "HONEY! A boy has been hit by a car! He's face down in the road! A boy was hit! Not ours! Call 110 (that's our 911) and go see if he's breathing! No one is helping him! Go make sure he's breathing!"
Mike immediately dove for the phone and ran outside. He got the operator on the line and was talking to 110, but he, like me, saw the other adults there and assumed that he wasn't needed at first. I mean, how many adults do you know that would witness a child getting injured and not help? But Mike did check anyway, and he was breathing but unconscious (I did not find this out until later). There was no blood. He was just limp on the road. It was awful.
The boys had followed me inside. I didn't know what to do with them. Do we go outside and watch like spectators, or do I protect them from the potentially grizzly scene? I didn't know what the situation might bring, so I wasn't sure what I would be exposing them to. Maybe to not see would be worse than to see, because they could imagine something worse than the reality. After a moment's thought, I gave them the choice: stay inside or go watch. Both wanted to watch. So we went back outside and sat down next to the car.
After a few minutes, the boy started to move his hands. That was very good to see. But he didn't move anything else. Mike alternated between walking near him and squatting down with him, but I couldn't tell if he was talking. Lots of adults had gathered by now, but no one offered any more help. Everyone was just looking. Cars who encountered the scene just pulled to the side and drove right on by - buses, too. Buses.
About this time, an SUV pulled up and his mom leaped out of the car. I still don't know if she knew in advance that he was hurt, or if she just happened upon it on her way home for lunch. She was nearly hysterical. I was very sympathetic. She had the presence of mind to yell at the driver who hit him, which I don't think I would have thought of. She knelt down beside him and stayed with him the whole rest of the time (finally, somebody did that!) and I was so glad she was there. And after she came, and the nanny walked up with the little brother, I finally realized that this pile of rags was our neighbor down the street! It took me that long to recognize him. He is a cheerful and friendly 9 year old boy who has always been kind and inclusive to our boys, and his younger brother is on our T-ball team. Knowing who it was made it SO much worse.
It took FOREVER for help to arrive. We got two security guards in pickup trucks after about 10 minutes, and the ambulance arrived after about 25 minutes. (HONEST TO GOD, people, this place is TINY! Exactly how long did you spend picking your teeth before you decided to mosey on over?) We finally got the first-responder firetruck after 30 minutes (I can almost see the fire station from our house). Needless to say, Lawrence was THRILLED. They put him on the backboard and loaded him up in the ambulance with his mom. Mike drove her car back to their house for her. And then we had to all come back inside and eat a normal lunch.
I spent most of the rest of the day feeling like I was about to throw up or burst into tears. "What if he's not ok? I'm thinking brain, spine, broken bones, etc, etc, since there was no blood. The medical care here is less than ideal. What if that had been *my* kid? Did I do the right things when I was initially responding? Did I get him help as fast as I could have?" Around and around my brain went.
Thankfully, the news was not too long in coming: by the evening, we knew that miraculously he WAS ok, and he was discharged from the hospital and resting at home. I don't know if he had a concussion or what, but he was ONE LUCKY KID. His bike was in front of our across-the-street-neighbor's house. He landed in the middle of the intersection. His shoes were 50 feet further up the road. Somebody found his glasses somewhere, since they were knocked off, too. He was not wearing a helmet. Not wearing a helmet! He is alive. I am amazed.
It took me days to recover. Well, I still think I am recovering. About two days later I was chatting with a friend and telling her about it, and she told me that people here are instructed NOT to help in an emergency. First aid? No. CPR or rescue breathing? Forget it. If you see a car accident, you are supposed to drive on by. If you are walking down the street and you see somebody clutch their chest and fall to the ground, you just step over them and keep going. WHY? How can people do this?
It's because you are liable if something happens. So let's say you do see somebody clutch their chest and collapse - you do CPR, and the person dies anyway. YOU are now culpable for the person's death. And the penalty for death is...death. Yes, you can and will be executed for trying to save someone's life. There are no Good Samaritan laws here. Apparently, the US is VERY unique in this regard - most (all?) other places in the world are like Saudi.
That explains why none of the people standing around were helping the boy. It's ok to stand there and stare, but apparently it's not ok to get involved.
This philosophy was even further proven that very same evening when our dear neighbors were out at the park. The little boy of the family had a bike wreck and cut his face very badly - so badly that his skull was showing. His mother shouted repeatedly for help, but all the other adults in the park, who are all Filipino nannies, just looked at her. No one came over to help her. Can you believe that? No one! She had to carry him home with her younger daughter in tow and call the ambulance from home.
So through all this, I learned that it is not wise to expect help in an emergency. Instead, expect that you will be the only person willing to help. Depend only on yourself. Not how I would have it if it was to be my way, but good to know for future reference.
I also learned that even knowing all this, I still could not stand by and watch a person be hurt
or die when I know I could do something to help. Especially a child. I
couldn't live with myself. I guess I would just help them and then
jump on the next flight out and never come back.
So back to my initial question:
Would you pay a Mexican immigrant who speaks some broken English six
bucks an hour to watch your children for 12 hours a day, 5 or 6 days a
week?
My answer is "Um, how about....nooooo."
But substitute "Filipino" for "Mexican" and you've got a resounding YES from nearly all the families with small children here. YES! Can you believe it? My dear next door neighbor and I are ROUTINELY the only parents at the playground. And the playground is routinely packed with all nationalities of kids. But who's watching them? Their Filipino nannies! This has been a major source of loneliness for me and for her in living here - there is hardly any camaraderie amongst the moms because everybody's got their nannies being the mom. But that's another issue. What's important here is that these people have put their precious children in the care of someone who barely speaks English and someone who they know WILL NOT HELP in the event of an emergency.
I'm not kidding. Hello, parents? Hello?
It's hard to know if the problem is me or them. Either I am not flexible enough in my morals and philosophies in raising my children (or equivalently, you have to be more lax of a parent than me to make it over here), or the people over here have forgotten what it's like to raise a kid in America.
Same goes for car seats. I *insist* that my kids are always in car seats in 5 point harnesses, even just to drive down the road. But lots of people over here just let their kids loose in the car (not even in a seat - not even in an adult seat - just sitting on the console or jumping around or where ever) because camp is small and nobody goes very fast, say 45 mph at best.
Social pressure to be a lax parent is strong, and I think about these issues a lot. I wish there was a
way I could fit in better, and so be happier, AND have my kids be
safe. But when I get the, "Lawrence is two - can't he just ride in the low-back booster?" and "Why don't you have a nanny, again?" I guess I know where I really stand.
To heck with fitting in - I'm going to stick to my guns. At least then I know that I've given my kids the best shot at being safe if anything ever happens. I'm willing to swim against the current for that.
