Carolina, or Change

On Sunday morning, my plan is to go to work at the orphanage and then head to a clown show being held at the parish. (A day of festivity sponsored by a political party who emblazons toys with their stickers--in Mexico there is not much separation of church and state.)

It occurs to me that small children and clowns are things that should be combined so before leaving around eleven, I ask Sister for permission to take Carolina (An autistic 5 year-old who rarely gets to leave the house) to the show.

``What time will you be back?`` Sister asks.

``Whenever you want. I was thinking around one.``

``No, not one.``

``Okay, maybe twelve.``

``No, not twelve.... You can bring her back at three. Three is good.`` (The convent is closed to visitors between 12 and 3.)

This is more of a commitment than I was planning on, but if it is the only way to spring her, I`m game. I gather up spare diapers and clothing and we take off.

When we arrive at the parish, clowns are dancing on a stage that has been set up and the yard is full of spectators and food and toy vendors. We sit with Isaac and Lisa, and for a while Isaac keeps Carolina entertained with his keys.

But she gets bored and we go near the stage where she is attracted by the colorful, glittery costumes of the clowns. She reaches out to them and is passed around by several clowns until she ends up on stage. They all dance while I hover nervously nearby answering questions about her. The head clown announces, ``we`re going to give Carolina some gifts but let her mother hold on to them now now,`` and she hands me a board game and rubber ball.

Since I now have a maternal image to uphold, I head onto stage with the group because Carolina is prone to sporadically squirming away from people or having tantrums. A clown tells me to dance along, and although both public performing and dancing are two things I would be happy never doing, I clap to the music until Carolina returns to me and we head off the stage.

We wander around the yard, with Carolina grabbing at toys she likes, lunging into the arms of grown-ups who look appealing, and taking food and candy from the bags of strangers. Like me, Carolina is on the pale side and since many people are unfamiliar with the symptoms of autism, she comes across as a misbehaved child. Thus I come across as a bad mother.

So it goes. We take a walk to my house where I give Carolina a snack. Melissa laughs at my mistaken identity stories and watches Carolina when I go upstairs to change my clothes.

``Mama,`` Carolina says and Melissa calls ``she`s asking for you.``

We head back to the parish and settle in for Mass. I have Carolina on my lap and she busies herself by going through a People magazine that she snagged from the house. She literally tears through it by ripping out pages as she looks at it. Though I`d prefer to just leave the discards on the floor until the end of Mass, helpful seatmates keep picking up the pages and handing them to me. The service basically goes okay, though I have to shush Carolina often, let her stand up on my lap to see things, and clutch her hand to prevent her from wandering the through aisles. Several times, an older lady looks at her and points to the door but I keep Carolina at bay until Communion.

There are a few moments in Mass when Carolina is quiet with her head rested against me and everything feels peaceful. My mother used to tell me that I was born in the wrong era and that I should have been a 60`s flower child or activist. However, being in church with Carolina makes me think that maybe I should have been born 100 years earlier, when all that would have been expected of me is that I take care of babies and go to service every Sunday, because watching over Carolina gives me a sense of purpose and happiness.

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Dreams of homemaking aside, I am very excited that I`ll be entering graduate school at Catholic University this August in order to study social work. Some of the things that appeal to me about the school are that I want to learn more about Catholic social justice teaching and that the university is located in a poorer area of Washington, DC that I hope to contribute to.

I show Padre my application materials when we are sitting around the parish table one night. He reads through them, picking out parts that he can understand.

``This $200,`` he says. ``Is that a one-time fee or will you have to pay it every semester?``

``No Padre, that`s just the entrance fee,`` I tell him. He is quite taken aback when I give him a ballpark estimate of how much it will cost every semester but he recovers in order to make me feel better.

``So you`ll have loans,`` he says. ``You`ll be able to pay that back easily. We``ll take up a collection outside the parish with a sign saying Saint Caro pray for us.``

He laughs, ``maybe we would get a $1,000.`` He says that the Iberio, a private university up the street, is much more expensive, though I have doubts about this.

His surprise over the price speaks to something I have been pondering: is it necessary to spend thousands of dollars on education when what I mostly want to do is give love and acceptance to others?

This is something I thought about a few months ago after a frustrating afternoon of calling universities and checking up on my school and loan application statuses. When I arrived at work, the older girls were already in bed, but many squealed with happiness when I entered. I realized that it really wouldn`t matter where I went to school, as long as I stay focused on helping the needy and keeping my heart with them.

Nevertheless, there have been many times here that I have felt that I could do more with further education and thus I look forward to entering school. I also realize that social work is a field that can feel draining, so I look forward to learning coping techniques and to the opportunity for mobility that a graduate degree will give me.

As for paying for tuition--there`s got to be a clown show somewhere in DC looking for backup dancers.