Kiterunning With Strangers
In a city often divided by politics and headlines, a stranger from El Salvador and I spent the afternoon caring for each other's kids.
Yesterday, a tall, thin man with tattoos, who spoke no English, taught me how to fly a kite. Somehow, that moment created memories my children and I will share for the rest of our lives.
A few days ago, I decided I wanted to take my four- and two-year-old boys out to fly kites. The weather forecast promised a perfect day, and since we had friends visiting from out of town, we needed to do something touristy. Flying kites on the big green lawn next to the Washington Monument would be ideal. But being the overworked mom I am, the week sped by. Suddenly, the moment to go into the city arrived, and I hadn't found time to buy a kite.
I wrestled internally, knowing I had become that mother—the mom so consumed with work that she didn’t make time to buy the little things important to her children. I wallowed briefly in my guilt (feeling shitty) as my four-year-old repeatedly asked if he could catch a kite from the sky to play with me. I searched the lawn desperately for someone selling kites, but there were none.
Then, I saw it.
A sweet pink and purple Minnie Mouse kite floated gracefully in the wind. A man held it steady, though his two daughters had clearly grown bored and were busy playing with other toys on the lawn. He called out to them in Spanish, but they were fully occupied.
I looked at my boys and found my bravery.
“Por favor, ¿podría usar este…?” I asked, pointing to the kite because I'd forgotten the Spanish word for it. “Solo para cinco minutos para mis hijos.”
He smiled at my grammatically incorrect Spanish and handed me the kite. I thanked him profusely and called my ecstatic boys over to hold the kite string.
Though the dad had made flying a kite look effortless, within seconds I realized kite flying required skills I clearly did not possess. I finally understood why there was an entire book dedicated to kite-running competitions—it was an art form. Embarrassed, I tugged and pulled at the string, but the kite drifted like a sinking ship down to the ground.
Noticing my struggle, the dad hurried over to help. He took the string and patiently began teaching me how to keep the kite airborne. As we chatted, I learned he was from El Salvador and had lived in the United States for ten years. When his girls cried, we shared our snacks with them. My boys ran freely across the expansive lawn, chasing their mom and the fluttering tail of the kite. As they laughed and played, I silently prayed this would be a day they would never forget.
I hoped they would always remember the kites, the perfect weather, and the beautiful cherry blossoms. But more importantly, I hoped they would never forget the kindness of strangers—strangers who didn’t speak their language or share their country of origin. I hoped they would always remember how those strangers cared for us and how we cared for them in return. I hoped they would never forget that you don't need to know someone's name to show kindness.
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