Baby compassion

I've had many friends over the years ask me how I became an activist. Usually, I tell them about my university days. A period of time when many young people become politicized. But for me, my politicization seems to have been with me as far back as I can remember. As a young child I knew nothing of politics, but I had a heart; and compassion allowed me to see injustices around me and I responded with sadness and a desire to help. 

Around the age of 4 years, my mother and I had a fun lunch ritual. She often gave me one hotdog (which I still love to this day) and I would sit at the top of our kitchen stairs that went down to our basement, my back to her, doing kitchen things. This kept her youngest close to her,  out of trouble.* 

I would peel back the outer layer of hotdog casing and eat the dog slowly, relishing every bite. Everyday, I sat at the top of the stairs and my sightline would look below the stair railing because I was so small. This is not the actual staircase but you get the idea. The railing was held up by hardware that held brackets in place under the railing. Our railing had many more brackets all the way down the stairs. Kind of like this: Now, my baby imagination did not see stair rail brackets. Rather, I saw a row of arms and hands shackled. Can you see the similaritiy? 

I remember so clearly showing my mother over and over and lamenting over all these arms chained in a row. I cried several times. My mother kept trying to tell me that it was just hardware, but my young mind saw people suffering. 

To this day, I am baffled at how I even knew about shackles or people being imprisoned at that young age; but apparently I did. I remember talking daily to the arms and people I thought were attached to them. I would comfort them and tell them I would free them soon. I would lift things to their hands, thinking I was giving them food or drink. 

Once, my mother took a screwdriver out of my hand because I was trying to figure out how to use it. I had asked my mom what was the mechanism that kept them there and she told me the brackets were "screwed" in. And she told me how screws worked. She thought it would make me see them as just hardware. But to me, she gave me an idea for an escape plan.

My many attempts to free them were thwarted and I was doomed to perpetually be sad knowing they were there. I prayed for them. Eventually, as I got into kindergarten and first grade, my mom allowed me to hang out by myself in the next room; and I had my hotdog in front of cartoons. I guess cartoons erased my memory as I do not remember sitting and talking to the "prisoners" much at those ages. I bet my mom was relieved! 

So, I guess I should say, that my activism started around the age of three; when I became conscious of  "injustice" and "suffering" and a desire to help people suffering. Just goes to show that most social movements are run by leaders motivated by love. Not money or fame. True leaders are just able to see clearly. And they react with compassion and a desire to help.

* I also have memories of this same time period where my mom allowed me to "play bruja" - witch - by filling a pot in the sink and I would stand on a chair and concoct potions and tell her fanciful tales full of good-witch magic. Jajaja, even back then, I liked to tell stories.