Popsicle Boys and Gardenia Girls p. 1

Child labor can take many forms, especially in the Global South.

When I lived in the Philippines, fifty percent of the population was 18 or younger (a fact I remember from my missionary dad’s slide presentation). No matter what age, I was eye-level with a lot of children.

At six, I was shoulder-to-shoulder with a village girl—my size, but probably ten years old—hauling buckets of water for her family.

At eight, I was eye-to-eye with the gardenia* girls swarming our taxi window, sweet-smelling garlands draped off their arms during rush hour traffic. (*sampaguita, the Philippine national flower)

At ten, I was the same height as the popsicle boy pushing his cart across the scorching Manila pavement.

A Bible visual company sold an illustrated missionary story featuring a Filipino popsicle boy. Because it had a missionary doctor in it, my mom used it to teach US children about our ministry.

My apology to Doming, the Popsicle Boy

Dear Doming,

I grew up with you, and always thought you were a real person. I knew what you looked like, thanks to 10 x 14-inch illustrations in the spiral-bound visual aid flipbook. And I saw your real-life counterparts almost every day. Popsicle boys, thin and brown, in grubby flip-flops.

You and I were born in the same decade: the missions-minded, global-gospel 60s. But you never aged. Forever a schoolboy, you tinkled your little bell as you hauled around a crate filled with sticks of colored sugar water on dry ice.

In my mind, Doming, your biggest problem was this: your popsicles were contaminated, made from unboiled river water. And since my dad—a missionary doctor—treated case after case of schistosomiasis, they were FORBIDDEN. No matter how parched, how sweaty I got playing in the relentless heat.

(Although once my Filipino playmates smuggled in some street popsicles. We ate them behind the hospital bodega, away from adult eyes. I savored the frosty treat, all the while praying worms wouldn’t grow in my gut.)

You came with us to the States, Doming. Perfect for Vacation Bible School or Sunday School, your story was told from New Jersey to California, wherever my mom opened the giant visual book during our cross-country trek to visit churches. Wide-eyed American children were entranced. Especially when Mom tinkled her brass bell, purchased in our barrio market, at the suspenseful parts.

In the visual book, you had an even bigger problem than popsicles made with dirty water.

You weren’t saved. Your grandfather was a Muslim who hated Christians. And he stabbed you when you became one.

But then the missionary doctor stitched you up and soon you were back ringing your little bell, selling popsicles before school.

I forgot about you for a long time, Doming, when I left the Philippines. I left the popsicle boys and the gardenia girls, arms loaded with garlands they sold on the city streets. Left the children, necks strapped with wooden boxes of cigarettes and gum as they darted through six lanes of smoggy Metro Manila traffic to ply their wares.

I forgot about you until I needed a story for junior church. When I searched online, there you were! Happily, I bought the visual aid. Happily, I told your familiar story and tinkled the little bell—the original passed on from Mom.

A couple summers later, you were the Vacation Bible School chapter-a-day story. For a month of Wednesdays, you were the Missionary Focus feature. By now, I was adding my own embellishments from my childhood memories.

Then I wrote a story about child labor in Asia for a social studies book. And it hit me.

You’re a child laborer, Doming.

And I never acknowledged it. Neither did my mom, nor did the teacher’s guide for the visual, nor the company selling the book.

We were so intent on the gospel message we exploited your story. We were so focused on your soul, we never looked at the social blight on your spirit.

That’s a really big problem.

I hope times have changed for you, Doming. You’ve got color illustrations now. That’s an update. But it will take more to update people’s mindset.

So, apologies to you. And to all the overlooked children working on the street. —————————— 💮Become aware of ways children can be exploited, and see how you can make a difference.