by Paula Veloso Babadi
It was the early 60’s. Who ever thought an eight year old would ponder about “hope”? But I was in 4th grade and had to write a poem. That’s when I discovered words -their sounds, rhythms, nuances and endless possibilities. They were treasures which helped me make sense of my new world.
Coming to a strange country.
When we moved from London, England to Pensacola it was a culture shock to say the least. I had an English accent, said the alphabet differently than everyone else and had to learn how to carry over dimes rather than shillings in money math problems. At eight, I didn’t exactly fit in a school where Steven’s dog was allowed to “attend” our third grade class and where my first American teacher took away my italics calligraphy pen because we were only allowed to write in pencil. She never gave it back.
I was often alone in the playground shuffling leaves around until kids began asking me to pronounce words in that foreign tone. Of course, I never used the word “kids” back then, because it was not proper to call children “baby goats”. And I definitely never addressed anyone with “ya’ll” until much later.
Being different.
Living in Pensacola back then was like living in pre-civil rights Alabama. Daddy was a Navy Chief – quiet, hardworking, kind, gentle AND a Filipino married to his beloved blonde British bride. My parents protected us when we were young, so we really had no idea that we were different from anyone else. None of us children realized there was anything wrong when our family wasn’t allowed to sit down at the counter of a local five and dime store to have a milkshake. We certainly never knew until much later the reason we didn’t move into the first house we expected was because of my parents’ “mixed” marriage.
Feeling loved.
The writing which began in 4th grade became an outlet through the years: words were there when I needed to let something out and conveniently waited inside until the need arose again.
“When I was a child I used to talk like a child, think like a child, reason like a child. When I became a man I put childish ways aside.” 1 Corinthians 13:11-13
It was my parents’ love, devotion and faith that provided our family with a safe and happy outlook on the world. We grew up knowing that God loved us and was ever present.
Why write about hope?
“Everywhere Hope Today” is about searching every day, every moment, and finding hope in the obvious and not so obvious to sustain us when we are most in need. And whether or not we are satiated, it’s about then cultivating and strengthening hope deep inside and learning how to share it with others in ways both small and large.
One of the first poems I penned was during that age of contradictions: my childlike trust and innocence painted against the landscape of the civil rights struggle. It was an eight year old’s version of what it means to have hope.
The world is in great need today and I look forward to travelling with you on this journey to recognize and cultivate hope that began over fifty years ago. I haven’t changed any of the original language below. Maybe next time, we’ll explore a more grown-up version.
Hope
What is hope?
Hope is like lying the darkness waiting for light to come.
It is not knowing how, when, or where your troubles will continue
or end.
Hope is for man, and is his survival.
Hope depends on us and on God.
And if you wait long enough and have faith enough in Him,
someday that light will come back to shine forth in all its glory.
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So we come back to the little shepherd boy. I hear his drums, “pa rum pa pum pum” a physical declaration of his heart beating with love for the king, giving testimony to all that is required of us–offering our own hearts without reserve.