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Making
things happen - with integrity. A weekly CyberMemo designed to keep you on task. Monday May 27, 2002 Volume IV Number 21 |
FOCUS - Jasmine Esquire
Jasmine’s mom is a housekeeper. After nearly a decade working in a mid-West metropolis, to this day, she speaks no English. Jasmine’s dad left a long time ago. He preferred his alcohol to his family, and back when he was around, he was abusive. Abusive in ways a little girl shouldn’t even know. But sadly, she did. Her parents moved to Los Estados Unidos from Guatemala when Jasmine was just five months old. That was eleven years ago. Jasmine, the youngest of the three children has two older brothers.
In a relatively short time, all three became completely Americanized.
Jasmine’s dark eyes match her long, straight jet black hair, tied up behind her head into a long playful pony tail. She followed me like a little shadow as I wandered through a hundred year old urban estate house, now converted into an upscale B&B, restaurant and spa. Our daughter Candace and her sister-in-law Jennifer also found employment here. Candace part time. Jennifer full time. I shot photos of the elegant rooms, the high ceilings, the art, the window treatments and fireplaces and the burst of color fresh flower arrangements and the silk bouquets in the tall ceramic vase standing in the corner. I couldn’t help myself… I have a new camera. Jasmine was curious about my work; she wanted to see the digital images and when she flashed an engaging smile in my direction, we started to talk.
The Villa is one of three properties. Jennifer, who shares in the management of the Inns, took us for a tour. While Jasmine’s mother scrubs and cleans the rooms, Jasmine roams the properties after school, and then heads home with her mom at the end of the day to some corner of the city where they live with her brothers. There is no hint of Guatemala in Jasmine’s English. She likes conversation. She’s surprisingly articulate. She’s an All-American kid. A smart, bright kid.
I asked if she was interested in photography.
“Yes,” answered Jasmine. There was enthusiasm in her voice and her bright, curious eyes.
So I explained, “The lighting is key. You need to know your camera, and as you frame your shot, you’ve got to think about how to capture the light. Get just the right exposure.”
She seemed to follow the logic, so I went on. “When I’m in a beautiful place like this, I don’t use the flash. It’s too harsh. Too stark. I want to catch the warmth of the natural light and the highlights and shadows… so I cancel out the automated flash. Here, take a look.”
I pointed to the small screen on the back of my digital.
She looked at the image, and then up at me with a nodding smile, as though she understood the impromptu lesson on the photographic arts.
“Are you an artist?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you paint? Draw?”
“Both.”
“Have you got any of your work here at the house?”
She stopped to think, and then she perked up at the thought. “Yeah… I’ve got a couple in my back-pack.”
“Cool.” (I say ‘cool’ when I’m talking to kids. It makes me sound hip for an old guy.) “Would you like to see the rest of my pictures of the Inn?”
“Sure.”
“OK, here’s the deal. I’ll show you the pictures I’ve taken of The Villa if you show me your drawings. Deal?”
“Deal.”
When I finished paging through my shots stored on the Memory Stick, all with a running commentary on lighting and framing and color, I said, “OK Jasmine, now it’s your turn. Go get that art work of yours. I want to see it.”
“OK.” She smiled that smile.
And then she disappeared.
* * * * * *
As of this weekend, I am grandfather to two dogs, Sam and Ranger.
Sam lives in California. About an hour away. He’s a Jack Russel Terrier. He’s all white, with brown and black markings on his face, bright eyes, and floppy brown ears. He’s about thirty pounds of solid muscle. He runs like the wind, jumps and retrieves and never wears out. He’s not intimidated by anyone, human or beast. And mostly, he likes to run and play. His name is Sam.
Our second grand-dog lives in Indiana. A new arrival. He’s barely nine weeks old, and every inch a puppy. He’s jet black, mostly lab with a little bull-dog mixed in. He’s just passed the wobbly stage, with big paws and a dangly tail and dark won’t-you-love-me eyes and velvet pointy ears. His name is Ranger.
Both of our adult married children and their spouses treat these two animals as though they are human. It brings back memories of Holly, the little Cocker Spaniel we got back when we longed for children of our own but for this reason or that had to wait. I remember those incredibly intense feelings for that little dog, loved with such affection. We would sit on the couch and watch every move, amazed at the intelligence, the miracle of life, eyes to see, the appetites and the curiosity. The dog seemed to appreciate home. A true companion.
I think now that pets are a warm-up for parenthood.
Grandparenthood, too.
* * * * * *
I turned around, and there was Jasmine, two eleven by fourteen papers in her hand, one bright pink construction paper, the other plain white sketching sheet.
It was her end of the deal.
The first was a water-color replica of a stained glass window. The four panels symmetrical in bright colors. The intricate patterns reflected a vision of orderliness.
The second, a simple pencil drawing. “Wow, did you use a pattern or a photograph as a guide for this one?” I asked.
“No. I just saw a sad puppy laying in the grass and looking at me. So I decided to draw a picture of him. He sat still the whole time.”
Her lines and perspectives captured the animal, curled up in the grass, tail wrapped around his legs, head held high, looking up, with a beckoning sadness in his eyes.
We both looked on the piece of work with admiration.
“When I finished,” she added, “I stepped back and looked at my own picture, I was surprised. It looked just like him.”
“It does indeed,” I agreed.
* * * * * * *
We are celebrating a second graduation for the season. Our daughter has completed her student teaching and clean-up work after a change in major. In cap and gown, this week, she received her degree. She’s an educator now. We visited her mentor/teacher and first grade class just a few blocks away from the Indianapolis Motor Speedway where the cars are warming up for the annual event this weekend.
Mrs. Arthur knew we were coming, but she kept the surprise visit to herself. When Candy opened the door to Room 106 at the Ernie Pyle School No. 90 just a half an hour before the final dismissal buzzer, in unison, the whole class jumped to their feet and squealed, “MRS. OSTRANDER!”
“Hi everybody! I’ve missed you,” she said as a gaggle of first graders reached out for a hug all at once.
She pointed in our direction and asked, “Do you remember who these two people are?”
“Your parents!” again in unison.
We were welcomed as visiting Royalty.
Mrs. Arthur wanted to show us the progress this classroom had made since our visit last Fall. She invited Mrs. Ostrander to preside over a math contest at the blackboard, and then, after proving their quickness and accuracy in adding complex columns of numbers, she passed out a collection of story books, every one in a circle turning to the same page as a random sample read aloud “with expression.”
It was a magical moment that reminds one of the work that goes on unnoticed on a daily basis in classrooms across the country where dedicated teachers impart gifts to eager students, the gifts of learning, and weave the fiber of character into the fabric of national life.
Candy is now a certified part of that world. She’s earned her degree. And her credential.
But more important – she loves those kids.
* * * * * *
“What do you do when you’re not going to school or creating art?” I asked as we walked down the sidewalk along historic turn-of-the-century mid-western brick homes with manicured gardens and expansive porches and heavy oak entry-ways and neatly trimmed lawns, deep summer green. “Watch TV?”
“No,” said Jasmine, “I don’t like TV. It’s boring.”
“Cool,” I said, again. “So, you like to read.”
“Uh-huh. I read all the time.” In two languages, I learned later from Jennifer. She speaks both languages fluently, flawlessly. Listen to her in English, you’d never guess she knew Spanish. The same is true the other way around.
“What do you like to read?”
“I like stories,” she explained. “Stories about people who lived a long time ago in big houses with big families.”
“History?”
“Yes.”
“What are you reading now?”
“Have you ever heard of Ulysses S. Grant?” she asked. She stumbled over the name, Ulysses, as a reader would. She hadn’t really heard the name, only read it.
“Ah… the Civil War,” I laughed. “I’ve been reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln.”
“Oh yeah,” she nodded. “Those were the days when all the politicians and generals lived in big houses and threw huge parties while the rest of the nation was out there fighting and killing each other.”
I can’t say I ever heard such observations from an eleven year old. We talked some more about the Civil War and then about her life. I knew that she also speaks impeccable Spanish. I tested mine. She was patient and gracious with my attempt to resurrect high school level Espaňol. She told me about her brothers; and their academic and athletic exploits. She was clearly proud of them.
I had the sense that I was in the presence of a very special lady.
“Do you think about what you might do someday? I mean as a vocation? A life-work?” (I thought the word “career” was a little pre-mature, even for Jasmine.)
“I want to be a lawyer.”
“Cool,” I said one more time.
And I don’t know where it came from, but here’s what I said next. “Jasmine, I think you will be a fine attorney some day. Two things must be true if you want to be a good lawyer.” She looked up at me with those round dark eyes as though she really wanted to know. “First, you need to like to read books. Lots of books.” She nodded. Check. No problem there. “Second, you need to enjoy talking to people, and you’ve got a great start on that one, too.”
She smiled, and nodded again, as though she passed one of life’s little exams. There will be more.
I believe she will score consistently in the top percentile.
Jasmine, Esq.
* * * * * * *
It’s Monday morning. You are a leader with a day off, I trust.
In Indy, the cars made their way around the track, the best two hundred times. It’s Memorial Day Weekend, time to take a breather.
Leaders can learn from kids. Kids need the attention of leaders. Jasmine’s father has no idea of what he has in his little girl. But her mother does. I saw her dusting up the oak counter at the restaurant, preparing for the evening’s guest.
“Esta usted la madre de Jasmine?” I said in terrible Spanish.
“Si.” She smiled.
“Ella esta muy especial,” I told her.
As though she didn’t know.
Her face lit up anyway.
I’ll probably never see Jasmine again. It was a chance meeting in the heart of America’s heartland. But I won’t forget her.
Leaders recognize future leaders. Leaders stoke the fire. Leaders paint a picture of a future that can be. Leaders can spot the eye of the tiger, from a mile away.
Look for the Jasmine in your world.
Let her know. You believe in her.
Posted in Indianapolis
© Copyright Kenneth E. Kemp 2002
Special Thanks to my good friend David Belcher, owner of Rhino Media Group and creator of WisdomGram
LeaderFOCUS is a service of Good Stewardship Associates
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