Wild Things

I sat in the rally planning meeting feeling like a fly on the wall as the preparations continued. "No one can sell anything" one of the organizers explained. "Tell that to the palatero man!" someone called out. People started to giggle, reminiscing about the palatero man who mysteriously popped up at a rally to sell his little Mexican popsicles, weaving his jingling cart through the chanting crowd. My mind wandered to Phoenix. I had gone to Arizona from Tijuana for a rally and was stunned by the shear quantity of Mexican food that appeared during the march: elote, paletas - all right there in a pueblo vs. Arpaio rally in Phoenix. It did seem funny. So quick thinking. Entrepreneurial.

I watched Alec try to feed Momo her bird-food birthday cake. She ignored it. His ipod started a new song. "This will bring them alive," Alec commented "they like the MC5". I didn't know our birds liked the MC5.

I watched the strange image on the ultrasound machine, as if I would be able to see with my untrained eye the thing they were looking for. I guess most people see babies in a situation like this, but they, well, we were monitoring an ominous, threatening thing that was definitely not a fetus. They had dragged me back in to see if it "had changed". I mentally started counting up the sick days I have acquired in the short time I've been at my new school, all while staring at the image on the screen. Maybe eight? What if this thing had transformed itself into what everyone feared in the last six months? Eight paid days off wouldn't be enough. I started getting pissed at my job again, pissed that they rejected the thirty odd days I had stock piled in my first four years of teaching, pissed at them for opting out of a law that everyone else has to follow. What if I need the days, what if....."The doctor says you're good. No more six month check ups. We'll send you a notice". I grabbed my clothes and got out of there.

My eyes wandered to the cats. The rest of the dinner party guests continued talking, but my eyes were locked on the eyes of one of the many feral cats my friend has taken in. You can tell how tame each is by their eyes. This one was not too tame. I liked looking into its wild eyes.

The advent of spring and a cycle of antibiotics to kill the devil flu has brought me back to the land of the living. My light is beginning to shine. I run out of school minutes after the kids and have been working the kind of short work week that critics of teachers claim believe we always work. I like it.

The wild bird continues to nest on the porch, spring has sprung, the world keeps rotating and many things just can't be tamed.

Fly, fly, fly

"You know, I always wanted to be a cop. Not like a normal cop, like the FBI or DEA or something. Just want to cause a ruckus in the street" Alejandro told me over lunch at a diner in an almost rural area outside of Atlanta. I laughed. And felt uncomfortable for doing so. If that was some white kid's ambition, or even a black one's, I'd tell him to go for it. But Alejandro, well, it's out of the question. Fuck your dreams, fuck your ambition and fuck your contributions to our country. You can do nasty work that we need and that no one wants to do and run from the law while you do it. And there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

I looked at the now filled bird's nest that has been sitting on my front porch since last August. A huge full moon hung in the sky. I didn't think about much, not about the people walking or the activity of full moon nights. The bird went crazy, it flew out of its nest and circled the ceiling, pounding its wings in panic. I felt terrible.

I went to the Confederacy again on a little driving day trip through the Andersonville concentration camp, Americus and beautiful Plains, GA - home of J.C. It doesn't take long to hit the Confederacy, just drive south of Atlanta about twenty minutes and you will start to see it. The old state flag, you know, the one that's indistinguishable from the Confederate rebel flag, statues of black folks with huge teeth and lips eating watermelon, all the markings and fixings of the Confederate States of America. It's all right there. We stopped in to a small restaurant and got some barbecue in Andersonville. The woman tending the shop was freakishly nice and friendly. As I ate my sandwich, my eyes scanned the walls of rebel flags and racist symbols, all the while exchanging pleasantries with this more than pleasant woman. A black couple perused the items for sale. Were they doing the same thing we were doing, trying to act like everything was okay in this bizarre state of utter bigotry, out of fear, fear of what, not accepting them for what they are or fear of outright confrontation? Is that what they were doing too?

I remember moving to the South. I was ten. It was the first time I heard the words "War of Northern Aggression" instead of the commonly used term: The Civil War. Even at ten I was confused, were they pissed about something? Were they actually still worrying about this? As I walked around the acreage at Andersonville and read about the filth and scum that killed nearly 13,000 people in seven months, the voice of my tenth grade history teacher filled my ears. "Sherman was a war criminal! He burned from Atlanta to the sea!" No sir, Andersonville was a war crime and I'm glad someone burned this bitch to the sea.

"Ching ching!" went the staple gun as my sister and I ran around the neighborhood quickly posting flyers against Georgia's looming, Arizona copycat immigration bills. "Hi!" I said and waved at one of my students and his mother, then slyly turned and stapled another flyer to a pole. The trip around the neighborhood businesses was pretty telling. "No," one shopkeeper answered as we asked him if he would post one of our rally flyers in his window "nothing political." I had seen his jaw tighten when I said the words "anti-immigration bills" No, I just want folks' money. No convictions, I'd sell to anyone. Dude, it's money. And I felt an equal amount of joy when I told a neighborhood restaurant owner about E-verify provisions in the bill, while eying his Hispanic cooks in the back. "Put it in the front window, I'll get you some tape" he instructed, then talked my ear off for fifteen minutes about how wrong this bill is. Tell me, mister, tell me. I love to hear it.

Though the full moon didn't strike me like it normally does, I did feel the feral side of me start to rise. Eight more weeks of school. That's it. Eight weeks. And then Arizona, Tijuana....I felt the feral side rise in Egypt and I can feel it rising up again, shining and glowing and rising.

This little light of mine

I watched the man with the dark mark on his forehead yell into the camera on television. I remember those guys from Egypt. They get that mark from praying, praying hard.

They want him back in court. At the detention center. I'm worried. "I'm worried too" Alejandro said in his email. I can't go. I have to work, I just called in sick last week and contracts are about to come out. I'm worried. He shouldn't go down there alone, but even if he comes with an army they won't be able to stop the state from taking him back if they want him.

I still wear the friendship bracelets my students in Tijuana made me before I left. They are starting to fray, disintegrate. Everything is.

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine!" the music teacher sang with the kids during our morning meeting. I was surprised when tears sprung into my eyes. I want my light to shine. "All around the world, I'm gonna let it shine!" they continued. My light feels sick and weak and tired. I want to let it shine, but it's dim and struggling.

"So, have you been involved in advocacy?" the church lady asked me at the pro-immigration meeting. "Yeah, sure, I've been pretty involved in some things for the last few years, mainly in Arizona and Tijuana" I answered. "You should join our group!" she went on. "Yeah, okay, because I'm pretty worried about the legislation that is happening in Georgia" I answered. "Just send us an email telling us why you want to join and we will read it to the members and decide if you can." she answered. "Are you kidding? Why are you so exclusive? Don't you realize that immigrants could really use some friends right now?" I responded. "We don't want the enemy to find us" she answered, wide eyed. Give me a fucking break. While you hide from the "enemy" no one else can find you either and a bunch of fat rednecks continue making Juan Crow laws against brown folks. Just so you know. Keep watching out.

I wrote the little sentences and questioned why I bothered. I like what I do during the summers in Arizona and my solo activities on behalf of immigrants here in Atlanta. I do not like the "advocate" community in Atlanta. There's a lot of hierarchy and competition and sitting around talking and a huge amount of inaction, served with a giant side of self promotion. It's different than what I have experienced in Arizona and California and even Tijuana. It doesn't feel like the immigration situation is being changed much, but folks certainly are aggrandizing themselves. It's embarrassing to watch.

"Whadya gonna do next year?" one of my teacher friends from the school asked me over beers. "I don't know. Thinkin' of really going feral," I answered, knowing she was one of the few people that would get that.

"I'm gonna let it shine"

The Fever

"So my dad was in Wal-Mart and he heard these guys talking real loud" the five year old extrapolated. "'Whadya want to eat?' the one guy asked the other one," he continued "'Chicken in the box!' The guy said 'chicken in the box'!" and the kid erupted in laughter, then roared "CHICKEN IN THE BOX!!" over and over. For some reason I couldn't stop laughing either.

I ran into one of my old art school professors a couple of months ago. It was strange to see him, like visiting a moment from your forgotten past. He was awesome, just like he always was and still working and creating great stuff, just like he always was. "What are you up to?" he asked me. "I am an elementary school Spanish teacher" I answered. His eyes widened in surprise. He encouraged me, just like he always did and I left him feeling sad and wondering who I really am and which of the many identities I have encompassed in my life is the real one.

And then I was struck down. I started the week with a swollen, painful injury to my foot that completely derailed my advancing jogs around the park. I visited my doctor, who told me that I have a bone problem that I really do not want to discuss but am in no way pleased by. I limped through the week. A dry, itchy cough entered my repertoire last Thursday. It continued on Friday, interrupting my lessons with hacking coughing fits. By the time school let out, I was having trouble standing up and colliding with walls and doors when I did. I went home and collapsed. I felt confused and wasn't sure if I was awake or asleep as my brain obsessed and cycled over and over again through my many problems at work. At one point I made myself wake when my head hurt; I realized I was shoving it into the arm of a chair. I was praying for the night to end and for the daylight to return. Alec got me up and took my temperature. "101.5, Hilary, that's kind of high" he told me.

I remember, after three weeks of hiking high in the mountains of Nepal, climbing downhill on our return to Kathmandu. It was the easy part. Suddenly, I realized I really couldn't do it anymore and told Alec that we needed to check in to a hostel, though it was the middle of the day, and I collapsed on the bed without even taking my hiking boots off. This was the beginning of multiple feverish days of 104 degree temperatures and confused hallucinations, before I was finally able to rise and finish the remaining four day walk to the capital.

On Saturday, I got out of bed for ten minute stretches, only to be exhausted and lie back down. My temperature continued to rise to 102. "Take this" Alec told me, giving me aspirin to reduce the fever. I fell firmly asleep and woke up that evening lying in a pool of sweat. I was able to get up. I am horrified that elementary age children can give me a flu so retching that it can only be compared to the dysentery I picked up in a third world country.

The fever had broken and though I didn't feel good, I was not hallucinating. It was a huge relief. I went to bed that night, and the visions started again. I got up Sunday morning and again was drenched in sweat. I took a lot of over the counter medicines and prepared for work on Monday. I went to bed early, my stomach sore from coughing and chest feeling like it was full of cement. And then the visions began again, the tossing and turning, the work obsessions, I couldn't tell if I was sleeping or waking. I woke up, exhausted. And called my boss and told her I wasn't coming to work. "Okay" she snapped "they'll have to cancel Spanish today!".

I laid back on my bed and broke out in a heavy, freakish sweat. And then I slept.

San Valentín

As I walked down the stairwell and toward the exit, I heard a whisper behind me. "You're going to walk around that park, aren't you?" I turned to see kinder George alone in the hallway. "I see you going there from my house" he said, smiling coyly. He looks like my brother did when he was little, when we were little. "You're right, I am going to the park" I admitted, glancing out of the window at the lowering sun. "Do you think I'll make it before it gets dark?". "It's going to rain" he responded . "The spider is back in the bathroom. Not the first one, a new, brown one".

The city of Atlanta inexplicably decided to throw gravel all over the ice covered roads during our January snow storm, instead of putting something down that might dissolve and vanish when the ice went away, as other states do. Over a month later, cars continue skidding on the gravel covered roads throughout the neighborhood. Funny that rocks don't just go away when the ice vanishes. Parts of the roads began disintegrating as soon as the ice started to melt, just like Tijuana after the rains.

I watched the two second news report of the attack on the female journalist. I'm not sure why in a moment of extreme jubilation and unprecedented liberation it would enter anyone's head to celebrate by beating the living shit out of a random person and forcibly shoving their dick in her while she more than likely screamed, cried, bled, kicked and fought. I really don't celebrate that way. It actually doesn't even enter my mind.

"Okay so make the valentine for whoever you want, your mom, your dad...." I instructed. "I don't have a dad!" Greg exclaimed, "I have two moms!". The other twenty children did not react in any way, just looked at me blankly and awaited my response. I looked into his concerned face and for the first time in a long while my heart opened up with love and admiration for the tortuous place I work in. "Make it for your moms, Greg. They'll love it" I answered.

I think about the hand print stained windows in the visitor's area at the detention center a lot now that we don't have to go there anymore. Do people still claw at the glass, desperately trying to touch a loved one? Does the little boy still sit alone in the chair on Sundays saying "Papí, te quiero, te quiero" through the telephone while his mom looks on and cries?

Greg smiled happily and started cutting out two small red hearts.

Walking and Talking

"I woke up this morning with my mind, set on freeeedom" the kids sang during our morning meeting. "Woke up this morning with my mind, set, set on freeeedom...".

It was such a great class. I really couldn't believe it. I walked home, physically patting myself on the back, mentioning to myself: "Man, you are such a good teacher...". I couldn't believe it when I saw the observation document my boss gave me after viewing the same class. It hurt. I was shocked. Were we in the same room? It was obvious that she hates me and was willing to hunt for a negative. She free styled the form and had to go into the "comments" section to tear me down, as the criteria didn't exist on the check list. I guess I need to think about why someone would want to do that to me. And then I cried. And called a lawyer.

"Okay, you guys have to do two rows, there isn't enough room" I told my class during the tornado drill. "Oh God, we're going to have to put our faces in people's....". "I know. I'm sorry". I really was. I don't want to put my face in someone's ass either. I looked at the kid I had ACCIDENTALLY elbowed in the forehead a few minutes earlier. A cherry red goose egg was forming. "Here, throw that ice pack on the ground and kind of, you know, rest on it" I instructed him. "Oh God, someone farted!" one of the kids muttered. It really did smell like shit. "Hey guys, come up for air real quick, I know it smells bad down there. Okay, go back down, fast, they're looking" I responded.

I didn't realize my new home and situation would be so temporary. It makes me kind of sad. The pretty green Southern neighborhood. My long skinny house. The barely getting used to something that is going away again. Something new! Again.

"And what is the theme of this basket?" the parent volunteer asked the second grader as the kids promoted their items for the next fund raiser. "New Year's revolutions" the child said proudly.

"I'm walking and talking with my mind, set, set on freeeedom..." I found myself singing as I walked through the school. "Walking and talking with my mind SET, SET on freeeeedom...".

After five straight hours, I finally finished all 370 report cards. It was grueling, especially because I took a TJ approach and decided not to pass everyone and honestly assess the situation. I walked to the front of my house and checked the newspaper on my computer. "MUBARAK STEPS DOWN" the headline read.

New Year's revolutions. I couldn't agree more.

Ciao ciao

"Maestra, someone shot my dog" little Kinder Jay told me solemnly. He was out of his chair. "Shot your dog? Who told you that?". "My dad. My dog ran away. Then someone shot him". "I'm so sorry, Jay. I'm so sorry". "My mom got her arm cut off". "What? Got her arm cut off, what happened?" I asked. "She doesn't want to have any more babies. So she got her arm cut off". "Come here, honey, let's help Billy" I said, shifting toward my cognitively wrecked student that had been staring at us with his knees drawn to his chest. I put Jay between Billy's table and myself and wrapped my arms around him while we did Billy's search and find puzzle for him.

"Who's got a February birthday?!" the parent called out into our morning meeting. Several kids rose. I noticed they were some of the stranger kids. Gilbert, who deliberately cut the legs of her paper man. Adam, who stares at me with a spacey look in his eyes and then starts jumping up and down rapidly. My birthday is in February too. They are my peers.

So he's out. Released. Alejandro has been released. It happened on my birthday, though I didn't really find out explicitly for a couple of days. It would have been a nice gift. I had a good day anyway, even though I found out that my boss is really trying to fire me and destroy my ability to work as a teacher in the future the evening before. I shook it off. He's free, probably on a glitch in the system. I am watching him fade away, like Leo and Rogelio and Pedro and Julio and all of the men like him that I have intensely come to know in a short period of time and through extreme circumstances that leave you to wonder the whole rest of your life what ever happened to them. I'll remember him. I remember all of them.

"The spider is not in the boy's bathroom anymore" Kinder George mentioned randomly in the hallway. "Really?" I asked, as if I had been abreast of the situation for some time. "Nope. It's gone. Coach Halloran killed it. Smashed it dead". Good to know. GOOD TO KNOW.

"I'm moving to Shanghai," Anna announced "my last day is Friday". What? No, really. What? She was the first kid that liked me at my new school. During dismissal, she asked me to walk her outside, EVERY DAY, even though she knew the way. She would hold my hand. There's always a first one. I remember the child named Sir. Standing in the hallway on the Friday of my first week as a teacher, I watched the 2000 student strong sea of humanity file out of the school, a frazzled smile pasted to my face. I felt a pat on my shoulder, a genuine, encouraging shoulder hug. Sir smiled at me happily and walked out the door. He was the first one to like me there and Anna, here.

I don't want her to leave. But I will remember her.