"I'm looking at the man in the mirror!" the kids sang, at one of many awards ceremonies that accompanied various grades. I stood there, waiting for my part, my uncomfortable part. They were going to make me come up there, with a microphone, and address everyone to give out ESOL awards. I watched the Asian moms come in, they caught my eye because they stand out racially and I knew who they were there for some of my students. I was surprised and glad that they came.
I always picture my Karen students among large leaves of green, in beautiful jungles, the ones Alec and I hiked in in northern Thailand and Laos, surrounded by beauty, dressed in white, climbing gracefully through beautiful areas.
"You can't just stand here, go in or go out." one of the para-pros instructed harshly, when one of the Asian moms stepped outside to take a phone call.
The mom was dressed in winter clothing, a large puffy coat, in mid-May. Her face was stretched and worn, beat down. She quickly came back in. Nothing about her reflected those beautiful tribal girls I saw twenty years ago, and she might have been one of them. Her babies still looked like the rich green plants I saw in Thailand, even though they live in a broke-down, semi-suburban sprawl, the place where I spend my time, too. The place that was supposed to be better.
I watched the Vazquez family, a family facing stress beyond normal measures. I watched the mom watch her son give the introduction to the assembly, dressed in a suit, his feet not touching the floor before he stood up and charmed everyone with his eloquence. Another of her sons played the violin with the strings assemble. When the older son crossed behind the adults, she made him give her his dress shoes and shoved them into a Kroger bag, while she in return gave him his tennis shoes. And hugged him and kissed him. The father had been there the day before, for Field Day. Ate lunch with his sons, helped out the PTA. The only man I saw doing that, even when the ambulance pulled up to to take a chid away in the bus line and my teacher roommate broke her foot and we dragged her out of that place, that place where we work. Where one man, a teacher, kicked the feet out from under a child and smiled.
We had Field Day at the Housing Authority, too. It was one of the most fun times of the year. We chased them, threw water balloons, played tug of war all while some of our "bosses" joyously sprayed the kids from a balcony with a giant hose. It was a wildly toned-down version of what went on at my school for Field Day, which kept it in the safe parameters of old school fun and joy.
"Will you be here before I get here?" LeGary asked me desperately, in the hallway.
"Yes. I will be in the science room before you are released and I'll be waiting for you."
I rushed to be at my duty station after my last class, the room where I monitor the homeless kids, so that I would be there before he got there. He came in crying. His brother Lonnie always cries, but LeGary does not.
"I don't want to ride that bus." he stated.
"She's here, my mom is here. She came for Lonnie's award ceremony."
"We are going to find her. You have to help me, there are a lot of adults here, I haven't met your mom, what does she look like?"
"Well, she's wearin' a little wig...." he answered, lowly, with eyes wide. That could have been eighty percent of the women in that building.
We looked all over for her. But she had taken Lonnie and gone home, on MARTA. The other two kids rode the giant school bus to the shelter, alone for hours.
"Do you know what you are looking at?" Carl, the custodian, asked me. He used to work at my former establishment, and I don't know why I qualify him as 'custodian'. He's a comrade.
I looked over at the Cafetorium, and saw children dancing and singing to Old Town Road.
"That's pure joy." he told me.
"That's why I work with kids," I answered.
"They still have what we don't."
The last day of school happened. The end of a strange year. My school has the same tradition my old school had of going outside and waving to the kids as the buses pulled off. I like it. I took the homeless kids and we went out there, even though their bus wouldn't be there for a while. The librarian had her karaoke machine out, blasting rap. And the teachers line danced in the carpool line, long after the buses pulled off and the parents' cars stopped coming.
I finished up my work at the Housing Authority a week after I was out of official school, because my former district cannot manage a school calendar. I dressed up, and stood with a microphone in my hand, determined to sort of own it since I had spoken to so many large groups of people in the last few weeks, clutching said microphone and staring at the ground. We stacked the chairs and the teachers went out after for drinks, like we have for the past three years on our last night. I left my car, or I mean Alec's car, parked in the apartments, as did two of my co-workers. We walked back in the dark to get them, through the bougie area of my former district and into the projects. I heard a thumping sound. I quickened my step. Multiple kids, middle schoolers that I know, were punching a boy. His arms we extended vertically, as if he was hanging from monkey bars, and they were punching him in the ribs, in the back, on the front porch of one of the apartments.
"They're fighting... we have to stop them...."
"I can call 911....." one answered.
The kids stopped and stared at us. I locked eyes with a little girl that I taught three years ago and I think I saw shame.
"Is everyone okay here?" Ms. Henry asked, authoritatively.
"Yeah, it's good!" the boy that was getting beaten responded. I knew him, too. He is mentally unstable. He probably asked them to do it. And unfortunately, when he decides to turn it around on them, he will probably kill someone.
"Hi Ms. Henry!" a group of kindergarteners yelled, from their spectator's perch of the fight. They didn't even know they weren't supposed to be there.
I drove Alec's car back out of the apartments and off to my summer break. As I glanced to my left, I saw a boy being helped by two other people, one on each side, back to his apartment.
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