Let it Snow

"Hey. Lindsey says the Hale girls are going to beat her up after school."  a co-worker told me.

I looked back at her.  I was waiting with my dismissal line of walkers.  What the fuck was I supposed to do about that?

We walked up the hill.  I saw all three Hale girls surround Lindsey, but when they saw me see them, they disbursed.  

"Get up here."  I hissed at Lindsey.

"I'm afraid to walk home."  she responded, once she was by my side.

"Hey!"  Demetrius yelled.

"They sayin' they going to beat her up, they're going to wait until they get around the corner so you can't see."  he continued.

I kept walking.  I got them to the corner and turned around.  One of my bosses had explicitly told me to let this shit lie, that what happens after the corner is their parents' problem.  I caught Mr. C two minutes later.

"The Hale girls are going to jump Lindsey.  I don't know what to do."

"I'm going over there."  he answered, pulling his keys from his pocket and walking to his car.  

"They were in her driveway!"  he announced, as soon as he pulled back in.

"And you know, they live the other way.  You should have seen their faces when I pulled up.  I told them they better not be doing what I know they were doing and they left."

Donor's Choose was matching donations for "equity schools", aka, schools like mine that are majority minority and poor.  I quickly launched my project, asking for hundreds of dollars of new books for my classroom library and a new bookshelf to hold them.  Then, I turned my Facebook into a beggar's station, repeatedly re-posting my project and soliciting my friends to throw me a few bucks.  I threw myself a few bucks, more than I would like to say, mainly to get the funds matched before they ran out.  Alec shucked in, too.  

My school has adopted a reading focus this year, which I think is great.  They have been conducting PLs on how to do guided reading and remarkably, bought each teacher a classroom library of diverse books.  I attended my collaborative planning when they unleashed the books.  I watched the overview that entailed the diversity of the new books highlighting Black and Hispanic children.  I started shifting around a little.  Where were the diverse books about Asian kids?  They are one of the largest rising minorities in my school and the group receiving the most hate.  And no, they aren't Chinese or Japanese.  They are refugees.  Burmese, Karen, even Khmer.  The kids yell "ching chong" at them and the girls even face additional sexual harassment.  IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL.  

I helped unload the boxes of books into the various classrooms.  At least five boxes each, phonics books, literary texts and even little bins to hold them in.
"Man, this must of cost a small fortune."  I muttered to the admin helping us.
"Girl, yes.  This is thirty thousand dollars worth of books."  she answered.  

And...you know how many books were allotted to me, to my classroom?  Zero.  Not one.  

"Ms. Wagner....can you help me with my homework?"  

I looked at my phone to see who was texting me.   It said "Paw Ku's mom" from my contacts.

"BTW, this is Paw Ku."  the second text read.

We texted back and forth, with her sending pictures of this brutal 6th grade math homework.  Alec and I were trying to figure it out until after nine one night and the next night, I even enlisted Mr. Warren.

"I think the answer to number two is four."  he texted back.

"But I got a buddy who teaches 11th grade math, let me get him in on this."

Finally, Paw Ku face-timed me.  It was so good to see her.

"Ms. Wagner!"  she said, as she usually starts sentences.  

"I miss elementary school.  But middle school, it's okay."

I smiled into the phone.

"How is Kaw, is he doing okay?"

"Yes, he is."  she answered.

"But, he might move where his niece moved.  And, there is a girl that's like way taller than him that likes him."  she continued.

I burst out laughing.  

She put her little brother on the call, the one I now teach with my kindergarten group.  We talked a long time.  It is really hard letting them go.  

 

A torrent of Michoacan Spanish poured from the mother's mouth.  Jaime's mom was pissed.  

"Those girls!  They follow Jaime and yell groserías at him and one of them hit him in the head last week!  There are three of them and one of them is grandote!  They bang on our door, begging for snacks, like I would give them anything!"  

It was one day after the Lindsey incident.

"Mire, esas chicas son locas.  La mamá, también."  I answered.

I didn't even tell her that mom nearly got in a fight with another mom in the front office last week.

"Es ridículo.  No sé que decir.  Voy a contarles a mis jefas.  Pero si no puede venir Ud. a caminar con él, lo haré.  Voy a llevarle a casa."  I continued.

"Oye?" she asked Jaime.  

"Espera la maestra.   She is going to take you home tomorrow." 

I walked through the neighborhood the following afternoon, not because of Jaime, but because of a different situation with a child.  She held my hand and trotted along, with a lollipop sticking out of her mouth.  

It was a really pretty afternoon.  

Verde y Malverde

"Ms. Wagner....that kid of yours, Hot Rod, he touching people's butts again."  an administrator announced while I walked through the door after dismissal.  
"Yeah, I'm sorry.  I keep telling him to stop."
"He called another kid the N word, too."
"What?!"  I exclaimed.
"He said that the other kid said something anti-Asian, so, you know."  she said with a shrug.  
"Hey, wait... "  she continued.
"It wasn't Hot Rod, it was that other kid you have...Adam that said it."  

"I'm sorry."  I responded.  

"I'm gonna get Ms. Wagner to call your mama!"  the second meanest teacher in the school screamed at a Hispanic kid while I fled her classroom to go to my next class.  

It really didn't matter that he wasn't one of my students.  Or that his mom speaks English.  He was Hispanic-y looking, so, you know, must not speak English!

I had to go to court the other day.  It's kind of a long story that I might tell you one day.  Or maybe not.  At the courthouse, we ended up watching a series of criminal trials that were scheduled before ours.  All of the defendants were walked into the courtroom via a side door.  They wore jail jumpsuits.  Their feet were shackled and their arms attached to a chain that encircled their waists.  I felt grotesque sitting in the back of the courtroom, watching what was none of my business and probably one of the least pleasant days of their lives.  

In the hallway during dismissal, one teacher started beatboxing and a second followed.  I spun around to see Mauricio, dancing and shaking it in the middle of both lines of walkers.  Everyone was cheering and I could not stop laughing.  
Ku turned and shrieked.

"Hey, we got a social work referral to the county 'cuz of Hot Rod.  He grabbed a girl's butt and mom said it was sexual harassment."
I stared back.
"Yeah, I know it's stupid."  she responded.
He's five.  He grabs everyone's ass.  I think he touched mine, too.  It is not right, but it is not sexual.  

I watched a co-worker tiptoe around the corner, eyes wide as if in a horror movie.  She froze and pointed at the parents we were meeting from approximately twenty feet away.  I glanced over at the couple, wondering if one of them had sprouted a third head that I hadn't noticed.  No, they didn't, I verified.  They were just well, a different ethnicity than my co-worker.  I really can't say much else.  But I can say that I was ashamed, ashamed of her and mortified to be working with someone who feels this way and has no qualms about broadcasting it.  If there had been a "NOT WITH HER" sign I could have hung around my neck, I would have.  

"Hey, open that little red box on my desk."  I instructed Muriel.
"You might like what is in there."
She opened it up and looked at the candy and Halloween spider-rings inside.  She walked back with three.
"One if for you."  she announced, as if I couldn't take any of the ones I wanted.  
"And this one if for your dog."

"And this one is for me."

*Title, José Cota

No lo entiendo

"What is that in your pocket, Adrian?"  I only asked because my little kids get in trouble for bringing toys to school and I wanted to help him hide them somewhere else before anyone saw.

"They're for us!"  he hiss-whispered, eyes darting from side to side as he clandestinely shoved the brightly colored objects into his pocket before raking the zipper shut.  

Later, myself and the rest of my now first grade, ESOL Good Men sported matching pipe-cleaner bracelets.  Just us. 

I glanced over at Hot Rod while I tried to collect the walkers during my afternoon duty.  Both of his hands were pulling his shorts straight up over his crotch, kind of like a front-wedgie.  His mouth dragged horizontally into a wide snarl, silver teeth gleaming. 

"Booty!"  he growled with delight.

"BOOOTY"

A friend from my former school district retired and donated boxes of books and school supplies to my classroom.  Really nice stuff, glittery pencils, multi-colored erasers, fidget spinners, high-end folders, just opening that box filled me with delight.  I decided to show it to Muriel, it was just her and me in the trailer and I really wanted one of the kids to see it.  I planned to put it all in school supply pouches and give each kid a bag, but hadn't gotten to it yet.  I really wanted to show someone.  Her eyes widened when the lid came off of the box.  

"Why don't you pick out some things?"  I asked.

"I was going to give you some later, but why don't you take some stuff that you like now?"  I asked excitedly.

She ran her hand lightly over the supplies in the box, eyes glowing.

"No." she answered.  

I looked at her with confusion.

"I think....I think you should save them for the kids, you know, the kids that really need them...."

The kids that really need them.....I looked at her worn, donated clothes.   I remembered her "All About Me" first grade project that she tried to hide from the rest of the class.  I worked on it with her, hoping we could make something that she would be proud of.  When I asked her what she wanted to do when she was older, I know, weird question for a first grader but we were using a template, she said "Work with the guys".  I was baffled until I found out that her father, a refugee, worked with newly arrived refugees.  The guys.  I looked at her clumpy hair, unadorned with cute braids and beads. But Muriel has something invaluable,  something that can't be given or taught, something better than a hot pink eraser.   

I had a moment the other day.  Work has been hard, harder than it should be this early in the school year.  I came home and went into our room and closed the doors and sat on our bed.  I thought of the teachers that don't want to teach my students.  They look at my them with narrow, suspicious eyes and pursed lips, while stating in hushed, harsh whispers I don't think she speaks English, eyes darting around as if a ship full of extraterrestrials just landed on the playground.  

You think they don't speak English, but you haven't actually....spoken to them?  A kid in your class?  A kid on your caseload?

She needs some kind of special school...we can't serve her here.....wait, how do you say her name again, wait, how?

I repeat myself, though the names aren't difficult.

I don't think I can say that...how?

I see the paperwork and the names are wrong.  All Hispanic children do not have the last name 'Lopez'. 

"Oh Ms. Wagner....is that little Asian boy really covered in ....pox?"  I was asked.

"No.  NO!  He is home because of an allergic reaction, he has a bug bite on his lip and it swelled.  HE DOES NOT HAVE ANY TYPE OF POX."

"But I heard it was all over him....all over his face....."

"It's not.  It is one bite.  There is a picture.  IT IS NOT POX."

I started thinking about the day I walked past the pre-k line and heard a teacher calling to me, jogging up to me.  "Are you taking them?" she asked, breathlessly.  I turned in confusion and saw a Hispanic child and an Asian child standing there, children I have never met. Clearly must not speak English!

"What happened to Mya?"  I asked one of the counselors.

"She was being harassed, it was pretty bad."  she answered.  

"Racist stuff?"  I responded.

"Yeah, the Asian stuff but sexual, too.  Really vile.  She was so embarrassed she wouldn't even repeat what he said.  We had to get other kids to tell us."

Mya usually waves at me from the bus while I walk back to school from my afternoon duty.  I watched her bus go by that afternoon.  Her head was lowered and pressed to the seat in front of her.  No one was sitting beside her.  

I thought about the second meanest teacher in the whole school yelling at one of my new students for not raising his hand before getting up and asking her a question.  At the end of her commentary, she leaned in an inch from his face.

"COMPRENDE?"  she screamed.  

I was crying a lot.  I know it's stupid.  I would try to stop thinking about it and only think of it again.  I know what you might say.  That place is horrible.  You should quit.  But what good would that do?  How would it help?  Would it really change anything if I just wasn't there?