What I Learned As A Volunteer Teacher Caring For A Rescued Abused Child In Yunnan
The April rain seeped through my sneakers as I pushed open the wooden gate of the temporary care home in northern Yunnan. I was carrying a stack of donated coloring books and a bag of oranges, there for my weekly volunteer shift teaching art. Most of the kids ran to the gate to meet me, all except one. Seven-year-old Xiao Mei was pressed flat against the rusted wall next to the coal-fired water heater, one hand clamped around the torso of a broken plastic doll, her head ducked so her hair covered her face. The care worker sighed and told me she’d been there for three weeks, ever since local child protection services pulled her out of her stepfather’s home in a nearby mountain village. She hadn’t spoken a full sentence to anyone yet.
I’d been told she’d kicked three volunteer visitors and thrown a new set of clothes into the outhouse, so I didn’t walk over to her. I passed out the coloring books to the other kids, set one extra on the low windowsill, and sat down on the other side of the room to help a boy fix his broken crayon. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her stare at that coloring book for 20 minutes, then dart over, kick it across the room, and scurry back to her spot by the heater. No one reacted, and I went back to what I was doing.
Next week, I stopped at the street market on my way up the mountain and bought a 2-yuan pink hair brush. I’d noticed her tangling and re-tangling the doll’s matted yellow hair the week before, so I just brought the brush, nothing else. I sat down on the same spot on the floor, brushed my own hair slowly, didn’t look over at her. Fifteen minutes later, she crept over, still not making eye contact, and held the doll out to me. I brushed the tangles out of its hair, slow, so I didn’t pull any out. When I was done, she took it back and stood there for a minute, then went back to her spot. That was our first real interaction.
A lot of people ask me what you do for a kid that’s been through that. Most of the advice you see online is useless, stuff that sounds good but doesn’t work when you’re actually in the room with a kid that flinches every time you move your hand too fast. The first thing I learned is don’t push connection before the kid is ready. Everyone wanted to fix her, to hug her and tell her she was safe now and get her to smile for photos. Every time someone tried to hug her, she’d hide behind that water heater and wouldn’t come out for hours. The first concrete change I recommend to any teacher or caregiver is this: if a kid pulls away from touch or eye contact, stop pushing. Just let them be in the same space as you. You don’t have to talk, you don’t have to do anything. Just exist nearby, and let them set the pace.
Another thing I learned is that kids who’ve been abused need control, not just warm feelings. They’ve spent every day having every part of their life controlled by someone who hurt them, so even tiny choices make them feel safe. I started giving Xiao Mei tiny choices every time I saw her. Do you want me to sit on this brown tile or that gray one? Do you want to sort crayons by color or by size? Do you want an orange or an apple? I didn’t push for a verbal answer at first, just a nod or a point. After a month, she started giving one-word answers. After three months, she said my name for the first time.
One time, a donor came to visit around the Spring Festival, brought new stuffed animals for all the kids. He handed Xiao Mei a big fluffy white bear and said, “Look how nice this is! You can throw away that old broken doll now, right?” Without hesitating, Xiao Mei picked up the bear and dropped it straight into the trash can by the door. Everyone went quiet, embarrassed, and someone reached in to pull it out. I just stopped them and said, “It’s okay. Her doll is important to her. If she doesn’t want the bear, that’s fine.” I pulled the bear out, wiped it off, and set it on the shelf. After everyone left, Xiao Mei walked over and held my hand for the first time.
That moment stuck with me. So many people expect kids who’ve been through hard things to just get over it, to be grateful for the help they get, to act like everything is fine now that they’re out of harm’s way. But healing doesn’t work that way. You can’t rush it, and you can’t force a kid to leave their old pain behind to make you comfortable. For caregivers, that means you don’t question why they still hold onto small, odd comforts. You don’t say “you’re safe now, why are you still scared?” You just say “you can stay here with me if you want.”
Right now, Xiao Mei is 9, living with a family that takes in kids who need a stable home outside Dali. She attends the local primary school, and last month she sent me a drawing of a peach tree with three pink peaches, one for me, one for the care worker Auntie Li, one for her doll. She still won’t go to birthday sleepovers with her classmates. She still keeps that broken doll tucked under her pillow every night. She still has accidents when there’s a big test at school, and she still hides under the table if a man raises his voice anywhere near her. Some days are good, some days are hard, and that’s all any of us can expect right now.
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