Caring For A Rescued Abused Child: What I Learned In Rural Yunnan For New Caregivers
I’m wiping down chipped plastic lunch tables at the small community care center outside Kunming, and I set down a bowl of steamed rice and pickled cabbage in front of Xiao Mi, the 7-year-old who’d been rescued from her uncle’s home three days earlier. When I leaned forward to push the bowl closer, she jerked back so fast her metal chair scraped the concrete floor, and she wrapped both arms tight over her head like she was waiting for a blow.
No one had prepared me for that split second. I’d spent a week reading case notes, talking to the social workers who pulled her out of the back shed where she slept most nights, and I knew I was supposed to be gentle. But I’d never thought twice about reaching to adjust a bowl across a table before. That day taught me that everything I thought I knew about caring for vulnerable kids was wrong.
Xiao Mi’s parents died in a highway crash when she was 3, and she was sent to live with her mother’s brother in the mountain village. He took the government child support money every month, locked her in the shed when he and his wife went out to work the fields, and beat her when she begged for extra food. By the time a neighbor reported the abuse, she was 15 pounds underweight, couldn’t read or write, and barely spoke more than a few words at a time.
For the first two weeks, we followed the generic advice we’d heard: give her space, be supportive. We left her alone in the guest room most of the time, told her she could come out whenever she wanted. What we got was a kid who hoarded saltine crackers in the lining of her jacket, who disappeared for 40 minutes when the cook raised her voice to yell at a boy who knocked over a bucket of vegetables. We found her curled up in the back of the root cellar behind the center, shivering even though the May air was warm enough for short sleeves.
That’s when we started changing small things, one by one, based on what we saw from her. The first change was announcing every movement before we made it. Instead of walking up behind her to tie her loose shoelace, we’d call out her name from across the yard, say “I’m coming over to help with your shoe, okay? You can say no if you don’t want help.” Instead of reaching to wipe food off her cheek without asking, we’d hold out the napkin and say “I’ve got a napkin here if you want it, or I can wipe it for you if you’d like that.” It felt awkward at first, like we were overexplaining every little thing, but within a week, she stopped flinching every time an adult moved within three feet of her.
Next, we stopped taking the extra food she hoarded. At first, we’d check her pockets when we did laundry, throw out the crumbly, half-eaten crackers because we were worried they’d make her sick. Now we got her a small cloth drawstring bag, printed with little bunnies, that she could lock with a cheap combination lock we bought from the village shop. We told her no one would look inside it unless she asked us to. She still keeps three crackers and a wrapped lollipop in it every day, even though we have three full meals plus snack time every afternoon. It doesn’t hurt anything, and it gives her something that’s completely hers, that no one can take away.
The biggest shift was letting her make all the tiny choices no one ever let her make before. Every morning, we lay out two pairs of socks and ask which one she wants. When we walk to the village to get groceries, we ask if she wants to walk behind or next to the group. When we do craft time, we ask if she wants to hold the glue stick or just watch. For kids who’ve had every choice taken away for years, these tiny bits of control add up faster than any big speech about being safe now. A month after she came, she sat next to me on the front step while I cut red paper for Lunar New Year decorations, and after 20 minutes of silent watching, she reached over and touched my wrist. It was the first time she’d initiated any physical contact with any of us.
I talk to a lot of new caregivers and volunteer teachers who ask me what the most important thing is when you take in an abused kid. They expect a big, profound answer, but it’s just the small things. You don’t have to fix their trauma in the first three months. You don’t have to get them to open up and talk about what happened before they’re ready. You just have to stop taking control of the little things, and show them through repeated small actions that you’ll respect their boundaries, every single time.
It’s been six months since Xiao Mi came to the center. She still only talks a little, mostly short sentences, and she still hides in the storage closet if there’s a loud argument between teenagers at the center. She still flinches if someone moves too fast behind her. Last week she drew a picture of a tree with a little house next to it, and she handed it to me before she ran off to play on the slide with the other kids. It’s taped to the front of my notebook now.
We don’t know what her future looks like. There’s still a lot that’s hard, and a lot of days that feel like we’re taking two steps forward and one back. Some weeks she’ll talk more than usual, then go quiet again for a few days after a triggering event. But the small things work, more often than not. You don’t need a fancy degree or special training to do them. You just have to pay attention, and slow down, and give back the little bits of control that were taken from them. That’s the first step, and it’s the one that matters most every day.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » Caring For A Rescued Abused Child: What I Learned In Rural Yunnan For New Caregivers