The Wheels on the Bus

About a month ago I learned that Elliot—my fellow volunteer at Domingo Savio—and I would need to help some of our kids learn a song in English. The song was to be performed by the kids at the Chilean launch of the book Santiago’s Children, written by Steve Reifenberg.* Steve, a U.S. native, lived and volunteered at Domingo Savio in the 1980’s when it was a fledgling group home for abandoned and abused children. The kids’ performance was partially meant to demonstrate to event attendees that Domingo Savio is still very much a living, breathing institution; and it was partially meant to be a show of gratitude for Steve, whose resource development helped turn D-Sav from a place where no one knew where the next day’s milk would come from into the thriving community bellwether it is today.

The other tíos and tías elected five kids to learn the song, telling us to choose a song and then practice the song with the kids every day until the day of the event. We decided to teach them the old chestnut “The Wheels on the Bus” because it is repetitive and has hand motions to go with it, making it visually stimulating.

I am not sure exactly when the kids started to see our singing lessons as playground sessions, but every time we practiced I felt like the substitute teacher whose kids go wild the second the “real” teacher leaves the room. It seemed like pushing our buttons became the kids’ favorite pastime. Needless to say this led to a lot of frustration on our end. We tried everything to get them to behave—punishments, calling in our bosses to lecture them, praising them for good behavior and accomplishments, yelling, reverse psychology, giving them creative license, threatening to not let them perform in the final show—literally everything we could think of. None of it really worked. They never wanted to practice the song because it cut into their recess and we never wanted to practice because we dreaded the disciplinary problems. But none of us really had a choice in the matter. We had to get the performance ready for the book signing…or else.

About a week before the event, the kids really started to get serious about performing the song (mostly because they were scared into submission by the other tías); and by the day before the event they all pretty much had it down.

D-Day finally came—November 19. I arrived at the event separately from the kids, but when I saw them I was thrilled because, for once, THEY were really excited about the song. Instead of acting like we were forcing them to do something totally lame, they were giddily hamming it up for the crowd in their matching D-Sav shirts. The pre-show jitters, the special outfits and the special-occasion hairdos reminded me of my own choir, pageant and play performances as a kid. But this time, I was on the other end of the performance—the proud teacher with the videocamera watching from the rafters.

Elliot and I pose with our suddenly loving apprentices at the book launch

When the performance was over I felt a combination of relief, pride and fulfillment: relief that the whole ordeal was over; pride because the kids had been such energetic crowd pleasers; and fulfillment because I helped make the kids feel special, talented and important…even if just for five minutes. After my work with the song was said and done, I realized that that same frenetic energy that had made for such hellish practices had also made for a performance that embodied the fiery, indomitable spirit of Domingo Savio’s children.

The kids performing the Wheels on the Bus. (The video quality is bad, but you can still hear them singing and make out some of their hand movements.)

*I would like to use this space to unabashedly promote the book Santiago’s Children. It is funny, touching and it really got me thinking about Chile’s social issues and what my job here is about. Plus, it paints a very vivid picture of where I work day-in and day-out.