The Monday Book: LITTLE PRINCES by Conor Grennan

LittlePrinces_smallConor Grennan was just another one of those rich, thin kids who attended UVA Charlottesville. He figured three months volunteering at an orphanage in Nepal would make him interesting and a chick magnet, so he squeezed it in before spending the rest of his savings on a round-the-world trip.

Grennan went to work at Little Princes, named for the Antoine de Saint-Exupery book. Nepal at the time was in the midst of some serious and repeated coup-d-etat crap, but the rest of the world didn’t notice much, since they don’t have resources anyone else wants. Rebel armies were coming through mountain villages taking kids for soldiers or other purposes, so parents paid traffickers to escort their children to cities where they would be “safe, educated, fed, and cared for.” And of course the traffickers dumped them all over the place, with the result that “orphanages” for children with living parents back in the rural areas were springing up across the cities–for the luckier kids.

Grennan worked at a well-established children’s home, but he and his fellow staffers found a woman keeping seven children dumped on her by a trafficker, and that became the lynch pin that undid his previous happy-go-lucky life; those children were organized by the Little Princes staff to go into an established home, but the trafficker returned and whisked them away. Grennan took that personally. It’s one of those things we’ve all experienced about horrible events and statistics: numbers can be big and bad–so many dead, so many stolen–yet remote and tsk-tsk-ish until you know the names and faces of just a couple of people in that big picture. Then everything gets up close and in focus.

Grennan knew seven, so he created a non-profit, fundraised among his UVA friends, and went back to Nepal to track those young’uns down–and start a children’s charity that became orphanage-cum-reunification service. Along the way he meets a girl, converts to Christianity, and nearly dies in a mountain village.

It’s a very cool read, this book, but the thing I like most about it is Grennan’s straightforward telling of a story that could have been all about finding personal fulfillment, or the harrowing ordeals of working in Nepal. Instead this book has that boots-on-muddy-ground common sense feel, the read-between-the-lines restraint of someone who’s thought carefully about what happened, and isn’t going for the sensational thrill. He just wants you to understand the story inside The Story: those seven kids who were his responsibility, drowning in a sea of sad stories just like theirs, and how they led to Next Generation Nepal.

Reassuring, it is, to find that privileged kids in every generation aren’t just about discovering themselves striving for a personal best on a ski slope, but discovering and rectifying to the best of their ability the things going wrong around them. Go, kids, go!

You can visit Next Generation Nepal here: http://www.nextgenerationnepal.org/How_It_All_Began

The People Ark

One of the nice-but-odd things about running a bookstore is the diversity of those who visit. Saturday, the place was slammed until about 3. As the crowd thinned, I noticed a couple still browsing along the shelves. Every time I’d looked up over the last hour, there they’d been, gliding across history, travel, comparative religions, a small pile of paperbacks growing by their legs.

Ah. Good.

The door opened and a father-son team, heavyset and wearing Walmart shirts, headed for Christian Fiction. I asked did they need help, but their ducked heads, averted eyes, and mumbled responses made clear they were either painfully shy or not expecting people to be nice to them, so I left them alone, too.

Grace, as her name was, began asking about local shops, and it became clear that two new tree-hugging, planet-saving localvores had moved to town. Her partner was from Bulgaria; his name sounds like someone clearing his throat. He laughed at my facial expression and said, “Call me Z. Everyone does.” We chatted, connecting, so I invited them to pick the apples falling off our heirloom tree because we didn’t have time to harvest. Into our back yard they went, tall and liberal, rubbing our dogs’ ears in greeting.

Meanwhile, father and son, short hair in regulation Bible school cuts, had gravitated to horror, where I heard the young’un say, “Shew. You can buy these on Amazon for 99 cents.” They looked up as I approached, wary.

“Need any help?” I tried to make my smile disarming. They shook their heads, but the son held a Left Behind novel. “That’s on clearance,” I said, pointing. “It’s $1 but in the wrong section. Would you like to see where the others are?”

Their flip-flops slapped along behind me to Clearance Christian; they literally squealed with delight when I showed them the (neverending) supply of LaHayes and Jenkins. Inhibitions gone, they launched into a play-by-play about the series, confident I’d not read it. I had, more’s the pity. But they weren’t listening when I tried to say so, and left after purchasing two and offering up repeated exhortations that I “really needed to read these.”

The back door opened and the golden children walked in, bags of apples in each hand. She carefully selected four of the best ones and put them on the counter “for you and your husband. Thanks! We look forward to coming back, and to attending your events. So nice to meet you!” Out they went in their Banana Republic clothing and Teva sandals, her legs and his face unshaven.

Two sets of two. Had Noah loading his ark, they would have been different species on it. And that makes Jack and me happy. All shapes, sizes, beliefs and haircuts  welcome.

Go by, mad world. Or come in here. We’ll give you a cuppa.