Realization

I was walking to dinner when I walked into a group of children. Some speak a little English, most of them only speak Chichewa. We make it work.

A boy touched my arm. “What is your name?”

“My name is Emily,” I said. “What is your name?”

“My name is Johann.”

“How old are you, Johann?” Johann has this mischievous smile, and I liked him immediately.

“I’m fifteen.”

I thought he was joking. He looked like he was ten, maybe eleven. “Are you sure?” I teased. And so when he asked me how old I was, I replied with an outrageous number. He laughed.

I asked, “Wait, how old are you again?”

“I’m fifteen.”

And that’s when I glanced over at another intern and realized he wasn’t joking. He was fifteen, and he looked young because his growth had been stunted. 

He was clever, funny. Too cool to sing the ABC song with the other 6-10 year-olds. Cocky enough to think his reflexes were faster than mine. Charming enough to pull off a perpetual slightly crooked half-smile that suggested that he found us amusing. Typical 15-year-old.  So small.

Johann doesn't need my pity. He's enough without it. 

But when I thought about him later, I still felt a little sad.