Which Day?

"Cristian is going to be deported on Thursday" the text message read.  I started emailing.  I had been reluctant to start petitions, feeling jaded by the whole activist array of weapons:  Marches.  Phone calls to politicians.  Online petitions.  The only thing that ever seemed to work was legal action and we had tried that.  I got the petition started and spoke to his family on the phone.  I found myself feeling excited.  Would it work?

I kept checking the online petition between every class.  In less that twenty-four hours, he had over two hundred signatures, many with comments.  "Unbelievably cruel" one read.  "We need more people like Cristian in the United States" another wrote.

As I finished helping get the kids out of the school, I saw a father waiting for me with a little boy that had gotten in trouble in my class the other day.  I like this kid.  He's new to our school.  He gets squirrely now and then and needs a little tune up from his parents, but I still like him.   I had sent a note home once before, but this was the first time I had met either of them in person.  His father listened carefully as I explained what happened and how I knew that Andy could do better.  I spoke directly to the child and told him I could help him do better, he just needed to let me know how.  Different seat?  Different table partners?  The father spoke very little, but had an stressed, almost hyper look in his eyes.  I could tell he was concerned.

"Who was Rosa Parks?" our guest speaker asked the kids.  She had been at the March on Washington and was somehow teaching a class of around four hundred kids and about one hundred adults without batting an eye.  Or having to tell them to be quiet.
"She stood up" the first kid answered.
"That's right.." she said.
'So that we could sit down'  I thought.
"I wouldn't want to be on that bus," a kindergartner added,  "I would want to be with Randy" he continued, referring to the only African-American student in his class. 

I returned to my classroom, anxious to check on Cristian's petition again.  As I walked down the hall, I saw the father I had just spoken to, inches from his son's face.  His voice was raised, you could hear it above the roar of kids leaving the school.  I saw his hand rising up to the side of Andy's head.  'NO MORE CALLS TO PARENTS' flashed through my mind, as I averted my eyes.

I walked home.  I heard the chime of a new text message and checked my phone.  "No need for a press conference," it read, "Cristian just called his mother from Mexico.  He was deported this afternoon"

"How did it go when you got home?" I asked Andy, "Your dad looked mad".
"Yeah, he pulled my hair all the way home.  That was the punishment".
"How long is the drive?"
"About twenty minutes.  I live at 8750 Concord Drive.  If you go to Google Earth, you can see a picture of our house.  My mom's blue car is outside".

"We shall over come....we shall over come, ONE day...." the kids sang in our morning meeting, lead by the fabulous Ms. Warner.  I was hung over and I bet it showed.  I could feel the lump in my throat rising the more the kids sang.  I pictured the little face of Cristian's sister, nearly pressed to the windshield, as they followed me in their beat up compact car to the lawyer a month ago.  Five hundred signatures, forty-eight hours later.  They didn't know what had happened, that it was over.  I thought of Andy's overly obedient behavior in class after his talking to by his father.  

"Deep in my heart,  I do believe......we shall overcome, one day".