“I want to paint!,” says OP, as she echoes what is for her a consistent desire during the transition between rest time and play. She pulls out a paper tray and a piece of paper, while I offer her watercolors, brushes, and a paint palette. Sitting down, she begins to meticulously place a multitude of colors and shades on her white piece of paper.
OS has only recently woken up from their nap and hears the commotion happening at the table across the room. They pull themselves off their mat and gingerly cross the other mats, scattered over the floor. “I want to paint too!,” they say, when they arrive at the table. I acknowledge this, and begin to gather more painting supplies from the shelf. Turning to hand them the tools they will need to accomplish their wish, I am started by what I see: OS has picked up a paint brush off of the table, and has begun to paint a dark swirl of color on OP’s creation, already in progress.
Some may remember an earlier story I had written about a similar event entitled, “Dancing Without Borders.” In it, I described my amazement of the way in which OS and OP had allowed one another to transgress commonly-held notions of boundaries. That was juxtaposed with the way in which the United States has treated immigrants over the past several years. And now, here these two are again, dancing with paint bushes, while challenging others’ ideals of possession.
While I continue to watch OS and OP return to their dance together, I am again transfixed by their inaudible negotiation of a space, of an event, and of a shared creation. Their arms become tangled in the messiness of their activity, and perhaps their activism, co-mingling colors and ideas. As they continue to blur one another’s lines and shades, they also continue to transgress societal views of ownership and scarcity, and as they transgress one another’s space, they continue to transgress the current immigration policies of the United States. Reflecting on this, I remember the words of Ghandi, “There is enough on earth for everyone’s need, but not enough for everyone’s greed.”
OP’s Mom arrives at the end of the day. She is met with the same enthusiasm and energy that OP exudes each time her Mom arrives in the afternoon. After some exchange of hugs and greetings, OP runs to her bag and pulls out the same page she was painting on only hours earlier. “Mommy, Mommy, look what me and OS made!,” she exclaims as she hands her Mom their work of art. I smile; generosity has won the day.
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