Page 50 of The Mentor
“So, you would let any of them sleep in your bed, as long as they were sad and had a nightmare; even the boys?”
“Tommy and Nieall are only ten and eleven years old. I give them the same amount of love that I give my other students, but they haven’t needed it.”
Archer raised an eyebrow. “And what about the Nboys? Would you let them sleep in your bed too?”
I started jogging. “None of them have ever come to me for comfort,” I said dismissively.
“Yet.” Archer fell into my pace. “But don’t forget that those ten boys miss their mothers too.”
I shot him a sideway glance. “None of them can remember their mothers.”
“Tell me what it was like growing up with parents who kissed you and doted on you?” Archer asked.
“Well, it was wonderful,” I answered. “It’s the way it should be for all children.”
For a while we ran in silence, then he said: “It takes a while, you know.”
“What does?” I shot him a sideway glance but Archer was looking straight ahead with a guarded expression on his face.
“For the little boys to stop crying when they first arrive here.”
I furrowed my brow. “Can you remember when you first arrived?”
He shook his head. “No, not in specific detail, but when I trained to be a mentor I worked in an early childhood learning facility for two months. That’s where the toddlers arrive and they stay there until they’re ten years old.”
“You told me that.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell you what happens when the boys first arrive.”
“What happens?” I asked with an uneasy feeling in my stomach.
“It’s kind of heartbreaking really, because they are so small and they will try to touch every adult they see, longing for connection and love, I guess.”
The sadness in his voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“We were told not to pick them up, kiss them, or comfort them with physical contact.”
“Why not?”
“Because we had to toughen them up,” he said matter-of-factly. “That rule got me in a lot of trouble, but finally I figured out a way to wrestle with them for fun and sneak in a hug or two. Still, after my two months, I knew I wanted to work with the older boys. I didn’t like all the crying.”
“But what about the sensitive boys? You must have some of them.”
Archer huffed out air. “We do, but as I said: we toughen them up. In time, they learn to swallow their tears, fears, and need for touch.”
For a while we just ran side-by-side, my empathy making it impossible not to cry on the inside for all the little boys who had cried themselves to sleep, and buried their pain behind brave faces. “So, after the age of three there’s really no physical contact other than fighting, is there?” I found it the saddest thing ever. Human touch was such a vital part of any child’s development. No wonder the Nmen grew up to be inflexible, unreasonable, and confrontational.
He shrugged. “I suppose it’s different for everyone. I can remember hugging friends that were sad and receiving hugs in return. For those lucky enough to form deep friendships, I think touching is part of it, although typically rougher than what you would be used to.”
With my heart overflowing, I slowed down and came to a halt. “I feel like you’ve been robbed of something very precious.”
Archer stopped too and was looking back at me. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” I took the five steps to stand in front of him. “You were taken from the people who loved you and even though you don’t remember it, you were once that lonely little boy longing for touch and connection. I think you’ve been robbed of love in your life.”
“Maybe, but it’s hard to miss something if you’ve never had it,” he said pragmatically.”
“I suppose that’s true,” I agreed softly with an overwhelming need to pour into him a fraction of the warmth he had missed out on in his lifetime. I could forget about the annoyance and frustration I felt with him for long enough to see Archer for the small boy he had once been: sad, scared, and deprived of love. Lifting up on my tiptoes, I placed my arms around his neck.
