Random and Odd

I cried for an hour last night, and just burst into tears a minute ago.

As you all know, I’m on a documentary binger.  I have watched about 8 in the last week.  I feel like my head is going to explode with all the stories, stills, videos and words.  The conflicting arguments anger me and I have remember the number of sides to the coin and must remain objective at all times. Glen Beck, you SUCK! sorry. still learning objectivity.

“Born Into Brothels” was the documentary I watched last night.  In the red light district of Calcutta they gave cameras to these children of prostitutes.   They followed them around and showed them how to use the camera.  Made them learn how to edit. Talked about their work and how each was different from the other.  During the documentary, you got to know the children through their pictures and their spirit.  You saw their home life and how each personality of the children was much like your own children.  One child shares everything; Shea.  One child was the organized, wise beyond her years; Alyx. One was wild and would walk up to people on the street and take their picture if they liked it or not; Kara.
Each of the children in the documentary became mine.

There was a part in the documentary where this prostitute was screaming at another woman about her children and the boy was sitting there rubbing his head and eyes, waiting for it to end.  They cut to him talking about him having to study while living there and how it was really hard.  It reminded me of a time when I was staying with my friend, and her parents were screaming at each other for hours and hours.  My friend could sleep through it, but I couldn’t. The tones of the voices scared me.  Not that I didn’t grow up with a house full of screaming adults, but I knew which levels where serious and the other ones I could just pick a brother and go sleep with him, knowing I was safe.

During the documentary, I wanted to snatch up all the kids and find a place in my house to keep them.  They were smart, funny and no different than my kids…Yeah, the spoke a different language, but trust me; after living with my kids for a few months they would speak perfect American Girl English;  Each word would be followed with the word”LIKE”.
“Hi, like, I was, like, born in like, Calcutta, like in like a brothel, or something, whatever. Like, then like this woman like came, like in and like moved us to like California to like live with like her children, or something. like. whatever. duh.”

Do I hear an amen?

So I made it through the documentary without going into full sobbing mode.  I was so happy and proud of them.  Angered at points when I heard one say, “I have no hope.”  NO. Please don’t EVER say that.

Today I looked up the documentary. Okay, BOAT MISSED, it was filmed FOREVER ago and everyone probably has already seen it because it won like 25 awards, including best documentary. Duh.
When I saw their pictures on the website, I burst into tears yet again and read up on what they have been doing since the documentary had aired.

Pan to me sitting on my bed, legs crossed, tears streaming down my face, CLAPPING at the computer and saying, “See, I told you to never say you had no hope.”