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?