Might Need a New Life

I routinely have to dig through the files of my students.  It's a big pain in the ass.  I have to stand in this weird closet and balance my stuff on whatever is there.  Computer, pen, clipboard, all of it.  I have left my coffee cup in there, by accident.  It's like the closet from the movie Carrie, lacking the mirrors.

But the files.  That's when I see the parents that say there are from Mexico and have ID cards on record from El Salvador or Honduras or Guatemala.  When I see refugee identification.  My Burmese babies that have been mostly born in Thailand, or anywhere through hell's half acre but still identify as BURMESE.  Or Karen.  When I see African children that have moved from Central African Republic, to the Congo, to Sierra Leon, my babies, my children that sit in front of me everyday and I see this photo of them, as a child, as a real baby, running, hustling, fleeing.  They are these haunting little black and white passport photos, smeared and ghosty.

I never know what to do.  How I can do anything.  How I can fix this shit.  And sometimes, I go to my knees in that little closet and thank the monkey Jesus god that I don't even believe in for these children and ask for help.  Beg for it.

I slept walked last night.  I've only done it once, when I was on Chantix, and some other time, that I clearly can't remember, but Alec told me about it.  He told me about last night, too.

Thanksgiving is coming.  And I miss them.  We have been on break for three days.  I know they are okay but I hope, I hope in this new year that I can do everything, everything I can for them.