Page 2 of Stat: Love In Scrubs

Sometimes, when one of the kids slipped and called me “Mama Yara,” it broke me and healed me all at once. I never corrected them. Maybe because part of me knew what it felt like to crave that presence so badly you’d give the name to anybody who filled the void for a second.

Unfortunately, now, our well was running dry.

The spreadsheet on my desk this morning revealed the harsh truth in black and red—we had perhaps six months before difficult decisions would have to be made.

When I first reviewed all the money we had available, I realized the mission was much larger than what our account could sustain.

It was what motivated me to take action and find sponsors for our cause.

I brushed my hands up the sides of my ponytail to make sure my curls were still neat, then walked into one of my favorite classes, the arts and crafts class.

The kids were making pictures to give to a loved one back home.

We always reminded them that the parent they still had was doing their best, and we needed to show appreciation where we could.

“Ms. Sinclair!” the kids shouted, hopping out of their seats.

I wasn’t your usual founder who gave money or just ran the academy. I was very hands-on. I made it my business to know each kid personally and by name. I knew who their parents were and what they were dealing with. I wanted them to be excited about being a part of the family we built.

The school housed over a hundred kids. All races and ages were allowed.

Most of the teenagers were volunteers in the afternoon.

We made sure they also had access to the therapist on board, especially our girls.

Coming into your hormones and period with a dad wasn’t for the weak, especially if said father wasn’t as comfortable with handling those things.

I created the place I wished was available to me as a kid.

“Hi, guys. Don’t stop drawing on my account. I want to see those pretty pictures,” I told them.

They nodded enthusiastically. I walked around the room, making sure to speak to each of them, until I came upon Esa.

She was a pretty little girl with the prettiest, thickest, and longest hair, and deep mahogany-colored skin.

She was one of my favorites. She was usually quiet and stayed to herself.

Although most of the kids wanted to be her friend, she wasn’t the type to enjoy being the center of attention.

I think it was one of the reasons I did all I could to show her a little more love.

She needed it. When I was a little girl, I was just the same.

From what I learned from her grandparents, her father was a doctor who worked often.

I figured that because I couldn’t recall a time when I had come across him during pickups, but her grandparents were some of the warmest people I had ever met. She was lucky in that department.

I squatted down beside her chair and smiled over at her.

She glanced in my direction with a smile but quickly looked away.

Her cheeks had reddened, letting me know she was happy to see me but still shy.

I glanced down at her picture, which was stunning for a young girl.

I could see it already. She definitely had the skill of an artist. I hoped her father nourished that part of her.

“Hi, Esa-Bella, mella,” I said dramatically, causing her to giggle.

“Hi, Ms. Sinclair,” she responded in a low voice, then brushed her hair behind her ear. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, the way it always was when she was trying not to draw too much attention to herself.

I tapped my finger against the picture in front of her.

“This is so beautiful. I might need you to make one for me! Your dad is going to be so happy when he sees it.”

She puckered her lips up to hold back her smile and not show any teeth. I giggled, causing that pretty smile of hers to peek through. She lifted the picture to show the other two she had created, one for her grandparents and then another for me.

My hand went to my mouth in shock as I looked over the woman with hair like mine in a wrap dress and a baseball cap. I laughed at the addition of the baseball cap. I had only worn it once around the kids, and yet, she made sure to add it here.

“This is so beautiful, sweetheart. Can I hug you?” I asked.

I made it a habit for all staff and me to ask for permission before touching or hugging any student. I wanted them to have control over the things they could. Although the right to touch may seem like a simple thing, it was a significant boundary that even children were entitled to.

She nodded and pushed her chair back away from the table. I opened my arms and allowed her to walk into them. I held her only for a moment and then released her. She sat back down, then picked up the picture and handed it over to me.

“I’m going to put this up in my office. It’s so special.”

She smiled and then turned back to her other pictures to finish them.

I stood, taking that as my cue to give her space.

I continued to walk around the room until I was back at the front with their instructor, Mrs. Mavis.

She was a thick woman who always wore her hair in different natural styles.

I admired how many things she could do. I inherited my hair texture from my mother, whose Native American heritage took precedence over her African American side.

On the other hand, I inherited the hair, skin tone, and small build that my dad claimed I got from my maternal grandmother.

My hair had a mind of its own—some days it laid like it understood the assignment, other days it showed out, puffing up and fighting every product I threw at it.

Either way, I would forever admire Mrs. Mavis.

“How’s everyone doing today?” I asked her.

She smiled at me as we stood in front of the class, speaking in low tones so no one could hear.

“They’re doing good today, although Esa has been a lot more into herself than usual. I wanted to send her down to talk with the therapist, but the moment you walked over, her demeanor changed. Maybe she was having a moment. We’re entitled to those.”

Mrs. Mavis had that teacher instinct—twenty years of working with children had given her eyes that saw everything, even the things kids tried to hide.

I nodded and made a mental note to check in with her grandparents. They were sweet people, so I knew they would love on her a little if I mentioned she appeared a little more down than usual.

“We are. If you see her spirits decline a little more, send her down. I’ll make sure Michelle is ready for her, just in case. Have a good class. If you need me, don’t hesitate to send me a message. I’ll be in my office today. Administrative day.”

Mavis nodded. “Will do. And you take a break too!” she added as I made my way toward the door.

“I hear you,” I said over my shoulder.

I proceeded to check in on everyone. Each classroom held its own small miracles—kids who’d learned to laugh again, to trust again, to believe that love could exist even after loss.

Today was one of many, but I made a promise to myself that I would figure out the next moves for Little Angels Academy.

It was needed. Not just for the kids who found healing here, but for the little girl in me who was still learning that love didn’t always leave.