Wish You Happy Forever by Jenny Bowen Page A

worried. Except, perhaps, Director Kong, who was whispering behind his hand into his cell phone. I paused. He got up and left the room. Oh well, the ladies were with me.
    â€œWe know you are concerned about the children in your care. The good news is that we think we can help you give them everything they need to succeed in life. With the help of Zhao Laoshi [Teacher Wen] and other experts, Half the Sky has developed two programs just for this purpose.”
    I told them a little bit about the very famous and innovative and scientific Reggio Emilia approach, and about the plans we’d drafted for Reggio-inspired Little Sisters Preschools and Baby Sisters Infant Nurture Centers.
    â€œWhen children feel safe and loved, it is easy and natural for them to learn. Reggio is all about opening doors for the children, giving them rich experiences, helping them to fall in love with learning. Then they can reach their true potential. The founder of Reggio said, ‘Our job is to help children climb their own mountains, as high as possible. No one can do more.’”
    By the time I wrapped it up, Director Kong was back in the room. The ladies waited for him to speak.
    â€œIt is a very good plan.”
    â€œThank you, Director Kong. I really hope we can work together.”
    â€œCertainly. What we need is an elevator and a new washing machine.”
    I looked at the ladies. No one seemed to disagree.
    â€œI see. Well. May I visit the children?”

Chapter 3
    Do Not Upset Heaven and Earth

    I entered a room full of orphans. It was the first time.
    There were maybe twenty, maybe thirty of them, all little girls—toddlers. But no one was toddling. They were all sitting on little paint-chipped wooden potty chairs in a small dormitory. The children were tied to the chairs at their ankles and chests with strips of rag.
    There was a scratchy black-and-white television in one corner playing a soap opera. The sound was low. There was no other sound in the room. No cries. No little kid noises at all.
    A young ayi —which means auntie , but in this context, caretaker or maid —in a wrinkled, once-white uniform arrived. She was carrying a metal bowl of rice mush with bits of something brown. She was maybe sixteen. “ Nihao ,” I said. She nodded with a shy smile, eyes averted, then grabbed a spoon and sat down on a small plastic stool before the little girls. She started scooping food into the first three little bird mouths. The other children watched her, mouths open, waiting for their turn.
    â€œWhy are they tied?” I asked Mrs. Li.
    â€œWe don’t have enough workers to control them,” she said.
    â€œWell—do they have any toys to play with or anything?”
    â€œOh yes.”
    I murmured to Mrs. Zhang, “Where are they? The toys?”
    Mrs. Zhang asked. “She says they’re locked up.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe children will break them,” Mrs. Li said.
    â€œBut—”
    And then I shut up.
    I knelt beside a small girl who wore a red string tied tightly around her tiny wrist. It was digging into her skin.
    â€œOw,” I whispered. I touched the string. She looked at me with pure terror.
    â€œIt’s too tight . . . the string . . .”
    â€œHer mama gave it to her. She won’t let us take it off.”
    I stood up, shaky on my feet. I tried to touch each little rough cheek or hand before I left. Pathetic gesture.
    THE NEXT ROOM was full of older girls—another twenty or so—maybe three to twelve years old. They were arranged around two large, bright-colored tables. The tables looked brand new—completely out of place in the otherwise dingy surroundings. A brand-new, seemingly never-touched toy had been placed before each child—plastic puzzle discs and stuffed animals and toy military vehicles, some still in packaging. No one played. I don’t think the children had ever seen toys before that day.
    They