Jesus from Lima

I´m different. Everyone is afraid of me. I was brought up by a dog.
I don´t remember my mother. I think maybe she loved me. I hadn´t done anything wrong yet. My father, they say, was an alcoholic and drug addict. He beat my Mother so hard and so often, that she finally died.

I remember Grandmother telling me that when someone told her that Mother had died some time before, she set out to look for me. She found me in a street in Callao, Lima´s cold and dangerous seaport. I was on the ground on a dirty piece of cardboard being nursed by a dog. I like dogs. One of them cared for me and kept me alive.

Grandmother was very poor and could not keep me and Angelo fed. Angelo was my brother, two years older than I. He was big and strong and good. We lived together for three years in the streets of Callao and Lima. He taught me not to steal like other street boys. We did odd jobs, usually helping street vendors in exchange for a plate of food. Then one night something awful happened.

A bus ran over Angelo. His body was picked up and taken to the big Cemetary. There is a “fosa común” – a common pit – on the edge of that place. Bodies of those for whom there is no burial are thrown in. In the “fosa” the fire never goes out.

When a street boy dies, there is no one to care, no one to cry. He leaves no trace or record of ever having lived. He is not even a statistic. That is the way it is with us.

For years I slept in the Cemetery. Many street boys sleep there. The police chase us as far as the gates, but they don´t go in. There we are safe. The dead are good to us. They are not like the living. They never harm us. I think maybe Angelo is still there, perhaps even mother.

I never steal. But I do other things some people say is worse. How can a street boy get food without doing something bad? Other boys are full of hate, especially for the police, and I guess for all grown people. Angelo taught me not to hate. So I just take the blame for everything. That way there is no one to hate but myself.

Pipo told me that there was a place called “Girasoles” – a place where big people are good to boys like us. He had been, and said it was true. So I went. I first noticed that no one insulted me. They didn´t even tell me how bad I was.

I come to “Girasoles” often. Marco has become my friend, even though he is a grown man. He has a kind look in his eyes. He talks to me as though I were his friend. He said that I am – even after I told him about myself.

Marco told me of another Jesus, one who loves me and wants to make me his. He says that this Jesus has other names too: “Counsellor”, “Wonderful”, “Prince of Peace”. Why would he love me? My street names are: “Dog”, “Thief”, “Piranha”, “Black One”. I don´t really understand. If he knew all about me, would he really care? Marco says he would.

I´m beginning to think that Marco is not lying.