Skip to main content

CRIBS Foundation

From the moment we were pushed out into the world, we’ve been soaked in the need to hold a hand that will hold ours back. As we grow older, we learn to tame that need, to understand the difference between strangers and friends.


Along a sloping street in one of Marikina’s buried crevices, there is a small orange building with equally citrus-colored gates. CRIBS (Create Responsive Infants by Sharing) Foundation is a non-government organization that serves as a temporary shelter for surrendered and neglected infants aged only several days to 2 1/2 years old. The center facilitates future adoption of the babies or, less frequently, reunification with their biological parents. There are excellent professional caregivers but due to inadequate staff and funding resources, they can always use a helping hand from volunteers.

People either love or hate Valentine’s Day for a single reason: we surprise each other with the many embarrassing ways our raw emotions manifest themselves. Tomorrow, a friend will gush to you about how the boy she met five minutes ago happens to be her soulmate, or about the girl he would cross oceans for if only she would stop calling him a stalker. There is so much misplaced affection that remains unaccounted for, and we often witness more of it than we care to see.

This is why Valentine’s works, despite the criticized marketing charades. We are all seemingly desperate to find a real, graspable connection with the rest of mankind — which, ironically, is just as desperate as we are. It’s not so strange that I write about babies on this particular holiday. Of whatever nature it may be, the human affection we all crave is never really so different: we look for somewhere we can bury ourselves, basking in the warm delight of a familiar scent. Nowhere else in the world is this more true than with one-year-old infants, forsaken by the very people who should have kept them safe.

From the moment we were pushed out into the world, we’ve been soaked in the need to hold a hand that will hold ours back. As we grow older, we learn to tame that need, to understand the difference between strangers and friends. For these little souls who are left to fight the world on their own, the need becomes unprejudiced, shameless, and reciprocally generous. In that little room of milk-stained pillows, only one thing is more primal than the need for human affection: the ability to give it back.


For donations, volunteering and other forms of assistance, CRIBS Foundation may be contacted at 647-1329 or 681-5921 (ask for Liway Flores).

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Discovery

I believe in the great discovery. I believe in the man who will make the discovery. I believe in the terror of the man who will make the discovery. I believe in the pallor of his face, the nausea, the cold sweat on his lip. I believe in the burning of the notes, the burning of them ashes, the burning of every last one. I believe in the scattering of the numbers, the scattering of them with no regret. I believe in the quickness of the man, the precision of his movements, his uncoerced free will. I believe in the smashing of the tablets, the pouring out of the liquids, the extinguishing of the ray. I assert that all will work out, and that it will not be too late, and that things will unfold in the absence of witnesses. No one will find out, of that I am sure, neither wife nor wall, not even bird, for it may well sing. I believe in the stayed hand, I believe in the ruined career, I believe in the wasted labor of many years. I believe in the secret taken to the grave. For me these words ...

Caffeine

Because you do not know me, Francezca, you have every reason to be afraid— afraid because, while you are sleeping, I can be the moon, peeping in from out your window like some lonely lunar voyeur, or some rusty blade or kitchen knife when you feel like ending your life with a quick slash or laceration; because, when you wake up, I can be the toothbrush dangling silently in your bathroom, or the forlorn cotton bud preparing to rid your ears of dust and excessive earwax. This is no time to relax, Francezca— I can be anywhere anytime, anyone and anything you cannot even begin to imagine: the whipped cream on your waffle, the mothballs in your closet, the card tag of your tea bag, the jaundiced shade of moonlight, the moon-cake you hate, the steady staccato of rain, the flush’s fecal fouette, the hair inside your nose, your lip, your mole, black hair and brown irises, white teeth and red gums, your scalp, your skin, even your toenails. What is scary, Francezca, is the fact that you don’t e...

Low

It's not happiness, but something else; waiting for the light to change; a bakery. It's a lake. It emerges from darkness into the next day surrounded by pines. There's a couple. It's a living room. The upholstery is yellow and the furniture is walnut. They used to lie down on the carpet between the sofa and the coffee table, after the guests had left. The cups and saucers were still. Their memories of everything that occurred took place with the other's face as a backdrop and sometimes the air was grainy like a movie about evening, and sometimes there was an ending in the air that looked like a scene from a different beginning, in which they are walking. It took place alongside a scene in which one of them looks up at a brown rooftop early in March. The ground hadn't softened. One walked in front of the other breathing. The other saw a small house as they passed and breathed. The reflections in the windows made them hear the sounds on th...