Dead Leaves on a Dirty Ground

It is happening again.

"Lupita was stopped in traffic.  They have her at the jail.  They said she has to speak to immigration tomorrow."

They have already deported her son, Cristian.  That happened around the holidays two years ago.  She has never met her first grandson, born in Mexico because her son's girlfriend was not going to have the baby without him and returned before the birth.

"We need to call the lawyer.  Waiting does NOT help.  We have to find out where she is being held.  Is it an ICE county?  Should we gather the troops?  Get all the petitions going pleading her case?  It almost worked with Cristian.  We have to find out if they plan to move her to an immigration facility.  If she should ask for voluntary or involuntary deportation..."

All of the wheels started moving, almost involuntarily.  Weird knowledge and contacts that have been lying below the surface...dormant, waiting for it to happen again so they could prove they weren't just eating a hole in my stomach, they were willing to dig their way out.  I thought about sitting across from Cristian's lawyer two years ago, when he said it was too late.  Or three years before that standing less than a mile off the border, watching the helicopter carry a dehydrated man into the sky while Border Patrol kicked his friend's legs apart on the ground, hoping that Cristian had made it back across again.  The buses.  The nondescript buses that carried long lines of men to the no man's land between the U.S. and Mexico border in Tijuana.  The men at Casa, trying to be nice to me but suddenly ranting at me in English about all the PINCHE MOTHER FUCKING PROBLEMS WITH YOUR STUPID MIGRA HUNTING DOWN FAMILY PEOPLE INSTEAD OF CRIMINALS.  I HAVE BEEN THERE TWENTY YEARS.  MY WIFE AND KIDS ARE THERE.  MY ASS IS GOING BACK ACROSS TOMORROW.  Sitting on the other side of glass speaking to Alejandro on a telephone while children cried and rubbed on the glass that separated them from their fathers.  The sound the shackles made when all of the men in the Streamline trial stood up after entering pleas in group responses of 'sí' or 'no' or 'face a fucking felony'.  Sitting in a parking lot in the middle of the night hiding from Border Patrol while 4th of July fireworks covered the sky, waiting for the coyotes to meet my passenger.  Or passengers. 

"If they keep her, we have to get money to her commissary account.  It's cold in those detention centers, she will need money to buy overpriced clothes from the commissary to keep her warm.  And buy phone cards....she has to be able to communicate with her family...."

Her family.  An elementary aged son that is an American citizen.  A nineteen year old daughter that was so proud to receive papers through Deferred Action and immediately began enrolling in college.  Another daughter in her early twenties that still doesn't have papers, but comes with Lupita to clean houses, helping from her wheel chair, legs forever inoperable. 

"No matter what happens, if she gets released tomorrow, if they hold her three days, if they....if they deport her, we have to do the things we can do to make this more comfortable for her...."

Then I thought of the deportation bag.  I saw it when Alejandro was locked up in the detention center three years ago.  They never really tell you when someone will be deported.  Even if you're family.  They won't even tell you where they will be deported to.  Tijuana?  Reynosa? Laredo?  They can be dropped off anywhere, hundreds of miles from wherever they know anyone in Mexico, without money, and often at night, to fend for themselves and get back to a place where they know someone.  Some of them know no one, having been brought as children to the United States.  They are completely reliant on family members still in the U.S. to make random phone calls to Mexico City, Oaxaca, any part of the Republic...hey, my kid, you met him when he was three...well, he's is twenty-two now and stuck at the border....can you help?  He's big now but man, he's a child in Mexico.... I remember the buses pulling up in the middle of the night at Alejandro's deportation center...the bad buses, the ones that take them away.  It was as if they knew what they were doing was so disgusting that the sun should not see it. 

"I remember those flat trees in the desert...." Irena told me one day after school, in private.
"I still have the scars on my back from where they tried to take me under a barbed wire fence..."
We were sitting in a well respected American high school.  She was my student.
"I go back and forth..." another told me, "but my mom can't.  She doesn't have papers."
"I don't see the point of any of this crap." a third told me.
"Everyone tells me that I need to go to college, but I know I can't because I don't have papers.  What the fuck is the point of graduating from high school?  You know us Mexicans, can't even play 'Uno' because we only want the green card."

And about that bag.  It is a horrible thing.  When families finally realize that there is nothing that will stop the deportation, they bring a bag to the center and leave it there for whenever the inevitable happens so that their loved one will not be dropped, empty handed, in an unknown area in the middle of the night.  You see people sitting in cars in the parking lot, afraid to come inside because they don't have papers, but still willing to take the ride and sit outside for hours.  The officers search the bag when you bring it to the center.  No money allowed, not even Mexican pesos.  No phone cards, U.S. based or Mexican cards, or a fucking Timbuktu card if you felt like dropping that in there.  No letters, phone numbers, addresses.  No belts.  No Mexican ID cards.  Pants and t-shirts, that 's it.  No recuerdos, things to remember any one by or things that might help or comfort you.  No fucking anything. 

That's when I knew I was about to cry.  I hate that fucking bag.  If she is deported, her young American son could easily be placed in foster care.  He could visit her in Mexico when he's older, on his American passport with a Mexican visa stamped in it.  Her daughters would have to make a choice between returning permanently to Mexico or never seeing their mother again.  

"Angel, tengo que hablar con Angel....."  I remember my friend whispering into the phone in the middle of the night while Migra trucks whizzed by and fireworks lit up the sky. 

Schools Out for Winter

"I’m incredibly frustrated by this school closing. It’s cold. But it’s dry and it’s not THAT cold."



I don't know, six degrees?  I think that's pretty cold.

"Negative 30 degrees? Sure, close school. But today… it’s just kinda cold. That’s it. The kids will be inside the school, warm. It’s not a safety issue. And because of this I can’t go to work. Please do not close schools tomorrow."

Okay, put your six year old outside in the dark in this weather to catch the bus.  It's not THAT cold. Or stand your ass out there for ten-fifteen minutes waiting for public transport to take you to school in a thin jacket because your parents can't buy you a real winter coat because of an anomaly in southern weather. Really, it's not THAT cold!

"Absolutely the most ridiculous thing ever."

Yeah, and this happens SO often in Atlanta. We totally have to deal with this like, every ten years.

"But what about all the kids who are home with parents (or home alone) who need to be working to pay their bills?"

That one was actually directed personally to me.  All I have to say is that if taking one or two days off from work will make you unable to support your children, it might be time to um, make a household budget or something. 

"Pathetic."

No, you are pathetic.  So fucking sorry, but you assholes are just going to have to spend a whole day with your own kids.  No one was worried about a day of education being lost.  They were worried because their tax paid babysitting center was closed for the day.  It's pathetic that they think that's the role schools play. 

The neighborhood I live in and the district I teach in are not the norm for metro Atlanta.  They are both, well, rich.  The average commute to school is running from warm McMansion to warm Volvo to warm school.  Most are two parent households, often with both parents working or one parent OPTING to stay at home.  They don't have to worry about the things most metro parents have to worry about on a daily basis and they were the ones complaining about school closings.   They just don't want to spend another day with their kids.

"They made a decision. School is closed. That is that. Go play with your kids. Bake cookies. Set up a tent in the living room and pretend to camp. Have some fun. Being grouchy isn’t going to change any thing."

WORD, motherfucker.  Try to actually enjoy the creatures you put on this earth.

2014

Lola accepted the pig ear like she was taking communion.  She advanced slowly, eyes raised toward the giver and gently took the ear into her mouth.  And then, she ran away with it.  Alec and I laughed.  We know she really likes something if she runs off with it, as if we would buy her an expensive treat, give it to her, and then try to take it back for ourselves. 

I ripped the lights off of the tree, threw them on a chair and dragged the tree through the front door, along the side of the house and into my trunk.  It was sticking about five feet out, but I just crammed the truck door on top of it and drove down the street, watching the door open and close on top of the tree.  The fucking Boy Scouts would be done with the chipper in seven minutes.  I could make it.  If I didn't, I would be stuck with this thing that the trash men refuse to pick up.

The tree stayed in the trunk all the way to the first turn around the south end of the park.  I was thrilled.  I saw a man at the bottom of the hill in jogging clothes.  He was on the ground, holding his leg and grimacing.  Some weird stretch?  I almost kept driving.  I don't stop for men in need no matter what the situation is.  Especially not white men.  They just have to find someone else, because I like my lady parts unmolested and value my life.

I slowed the car.
"Are you okay?"  I called hesitantly.
"I just twisted it, really bad..." he responded, short breathed.
"Um....do you....need a ride... to your nearby house....?" I asked with an obvious look of trepedation on my face.
"Really?  Can you do that?  Hey, you're my neighbor!" he said grimacing and stating my address.  I realized that he understood why women are fearful of closed spaces with unknown men. 
"Can you walk over here?"
He limped slowly across the street, dragging a leg behind him.  I felt like an ass for not parking the car and helping him. 

Lola clandestinely walked toward the front of the house.  I followed her and was surprised when I saw the pig ear hidden behind the chair cushion.  She has done this before, but I didn't realize she loved this particular ear that much.  She extracted it, and walked around the house with the entire thing 'hidden' in her mouth.  Her lip was sticking up were a tiny bit of the ear protruded from her large jaws.  We sat on the couch.  I helped her hide it again behind a couch cushion, pulling the cushion away so that she could insert it and secretively shoving the blanket forward that she was trying to advance with her nose to cover the buried treasure.  She repeated the burial all afternoon, in four parts of the couch, under my pillow on the bed, back in the chair, in plain view by the fireplace, shoved between the bed and the wall.

He made it into the car.
"Sorry, but do you mind if I get this thing out of my trunk?  It's on the way and the Scouts are done in five minutes".
"Yeah... " he said, flinching with pain.

"Okay, five seconds!"  I said brightly, wheeling through the Boy Scout stand and on around the park.    

Express yourself

"STRAIGHT OUTTA COMPTON!!"  my radio screamed.   The hooptie was driving north.  I feared it would break down, but was anxious to get to the college graduation.  It was raining.  Gray.  But I felt good.

I have told you about her before, but you might not remember.  I have told you a lot of things.  I can't remember the name I made up for her, for her on the blog.  To respect her privacy.  I met her during my first year of teaching.  I am now in my eighth, which seems impossible.  The first year was horrible.  Except for her.  A quiet girl, from Afghanistan.  In Spanish One, which was ridiculous because she needed to be in ESOL.  The kids made fun of her name, they said it sounded like 'fuck'.  Her last name is Hussain.  'Saddam Hussain' they yelled, if I said her last name.  Idiots.  Stupid ass pieces of shit that didn't know their elbow from their asshole. 

That was back in the day when kids knew who Saddam Hussain was.  Maybe it's good that they don't anymore. 

She was determined.  She came to tutorial everyday, DETERMINED to get a good grade, to learn.  "How do you say 'I cried in the night'" she asked me one day, during tutorial.
"'Lloré por la noche', but... why?"
"I went to school for a year in Afghanistan.  But, it became too dangerous, so my parents kept me home.  One night, there was a terrible fight.  My father and the other men sent us, the women and children, into the house.  We came out in the morning.  My father was dead.  We fled to Pakistan.  My mother took us there.  We worked in a rug factory.  It made my fingers hurt, but we had to get by.  And then, we got visas, we came here.  I always wanted to go to school."

She graduated within the four year framework.  Learned the Roman alphabet, learned to write from right to left, learned English, passed the Georgia High School Writing test and all of the rest of the standardized tests.  She had been to school for ONE year, before coming to the United States.  And still graduated within four years, something that a lot of our native born can't manage to do, with elementary and middle school backing them up. 

And then, she went to college.  Earned a full scholarship at a four year, private liberal arts school.  It was difficult for her to leave her family.  Though they were only two hours away, it was hard for her not to live in the house with them.  Or help support them.  She felt self indulgent for concentrating on her own education.  And, her brother died unexpectedly on her first day of college.  I wish I hadn't been concentrating on my own self during that time.  I could have helped her.  She needed my help and I didn't give it. I was a grown woman and only thought about myself. 

"COMPTON!" my radio screamed.  I knew I could drive fast enough to get there. 

I stared at the kid in class behind me.  Was he really using his phone like, right there, in class? 
"I gotta hit you back," he said into the phone.
Someone resisted.
"No really, I got to hit you back".
"Look, he needs to hit you back!"  I said in a high pitched voice.
"No really, it was 'bout MONEY" my student told me.
"You can't text about money?"
"Callins faster"
Alright.
"Okay, it appears K-rod has closed up the business shop and we can get on with things." I announced to the class.  I was actually pleased that he had respected my look and hung up the phone. 

I saw her in the graduation line up.  At first, I thought wow, look at my lady in her graduation robe.  And then I saw all her cords.  For honors, for achievements.  And I cried. 

I haven't slept all week.  I have a cold.  People get them.  I was counting the days until the break.  It finally came.  And when I arrived at my house, water was gushing all over the lawn.  The spicket was broken.  My sister and I couldn't turn it off.  Water in Atlanta is expensive.  Like, water the plants and pay fifty dollars more next month.  And this shit had been going on for hours.  I called the city to turn that bitch off.  They said they'd get to it.  Only took four more hours. 

"Shit, we won't have water for days, can't flush the toilet, shower, nothing!" Alec bitched. 
"It's the weekend before Christmas, we are going to pay out the ass".
But, I called Jesus.  And within one hour, we had repaired pipes with water running through them.  I wanted to pay him out the ass, but he wouldn't accept it.

Happy Holidays to all and to all a good night.  

Jekyll and Hyde

"Well, I agree with SOME of the things Nelson Mandela did..." one of my co-workers stated, a matter of hours after his death.  She made it sound like she was really going out on a limb with her generous praise.
Who the fuck has a problem with Nelson Mandela?

"Kids these days!  I fear for our future...." the older, almost grandmotherly substitute teacher said to me in way of greeting.  I had just arrived at the high school.
"Yeah, totally.  They're bad..."
"I mean the things they will say!  My goodness!"
"Yeah, they're pretty bad" I responded staring at my computer.
"Pussy.  They were talking about pussy!"
Okay....now you have my attention....
"Eating pussy!"
Not exactly what I expected coming out of your mouth.....
"And!  I will not use the words THEY used, but another young man spoke of the girl passing gas while he did it!".
Okay, you are really freaking me out now.  Casual discussion of 'eating pussy' with a complete stranger is okay, but the word 'fart' is apparently off the table?
"Bye now!  I SO enjoyed our conversation!" she said, sliding out of the classroom.

Seventh period of the day.  Friday.  LET ME OUT.  The kids were not up to working.  They were pulling out everything, personal questions, the difference between Mexican Spanish and Spanish Spanish, when did you start wearing glasses?
"Look you guys, I can tell you are not really feeling it today.  Let's just get through this warm up and then I have games for you".
"Why is the first one in the imperfect instead of the preterite?"
"Well Chicho, 'siempre' implies a general time frame instead of a specific one, so go with the imperfect".
"Okay, I got it".
"So, why DO we study Spanish in high school?" another kid asked in an attempt to avoid the warm up. 
"Just lucky"
"So, why does 'se niega' switch to 'se nego' in the preterite?"  Chico asked.

What the fuck was it, opposite day?  The rest of the class was going nuts and Chicho was actually asking good questions, instead of openly talking about jumping people and doing drugs.
"Well, Chicho, lucky for us you don't have to do stem changes in the preterite"

"Oh, okay.  I think I'm getting this" he responded, diligently correcting his work while in the middle of a seventh period, Friday-circus.

It had been that kind of day.  

Hallowed

"Any interesting news?  ¿Noticias interesantes del fin de semana?"  I asked my quintos, my fifth graders.
"Mi cabello quedó atrapado en el mezclador y los bomberos tuvieron que venir" a small, transparent girl with blue veins on her forehead answered triumphantly, reading from Google translate on her Ipad.  
"Hijo de la gran puta, your hair got stuck in a mixer?  What kind of mixer?"
"You know, the big Kitchen Aid".
Holy shit.
"It got all tangled up and my parents had to call 911". 
I noticed the bruise on her forehead.  She's lucky her hair wasn't ripped out at the scalp.   
"Definitely a weekend gone wrong...".
She nodded enthusiastically, blue eyes and veins radiating from her face.   

"Shit, I need to try to get some work done....." Alicia mumbled, holding a stack of papers that she intended to grade in front of her while we both sat on the ground, ducking beneath student desks with the lights off.
"Oh God, I forgot my phone...." I responded, refiling through my "intruder alert" packet of colored cards and escape route maps.  I could barely fit under that desk.
"My lower back is killing me..." she responded, bent over and Indian style in an attempt to fit under the desk.

It was quite a crowd.  I love the Grant Park children's Halloween parade.  My niece used to be in it before she could barely talk.  But wow, so many kids now.  I walked down and watched from the sidelines.
A couple of kids starting waving and their mom brought them across the street.
"You look amazing!"
"Thank you, look!  I have short hair now!" one of my former lovelies responded, removing the hood from her costume.  They crossed the street and got back in line for the parade, amid the sea of new, unknown children.
I felt like a ghost. 

Halloween finally came.  I passed out candy at my sister's house, dressed in my Bearded Lady costume.  I could not tolerate the mustache attached to the beard, and ended up looking like Amish bearded lady. A large group approached the house.
"Trick or Treat!!!!"
"Here you go, here you go, take that....hey, are you okay?" my sister asked a heavy girl that looked a little off.
"She just having an asthma attack" the adult of the group responded.
"Her mom told me that she'd be able to walk this!".
Holly has asthma.  She brought the girl her inhaler in an effort to help.  The girl slid down on the front steps.
"You guys go along," Holly instructed, "she can rest here".
They went about their trick or treating.
"You're okay, just relax.." I instructed.
I was surprised when she rested her head against my shoulder and gripped my arm.  I instinctively cradled her head and looked up at the the stars.
"It's okay, honey.  It's okay".

"Hey, what was the first step?  I remember 'evade' and like, attack, but what was the first step?"
"Escape" Alicia answered, looking at her notes.
"Fuck, well, I guess they are assuming we didn't escape.  Do you have your weapon?" I asked, looking at the scissors I had grabbed, along with my packet and rosters.
"No!  Well there must be something in here..." she responded, grabbing a plastic pencil box from under one of the desks and opening it.

"What is your name?"  I asked the girl, while sitting next to her on the couch.
"Umba..." she responded faintly, eyes like slits.
I ripped of my beard, imagining how unsettling it must be to be barely conscious and in a strange house with a bearded woman in front of you.  She could barely speak.
"More...cold..water.. please...."
I got it for her.
"Are you in middle school?"  I asked, thinking I was undershooting her age.  
"Fifth.." she breathed.
Fifth grade.  Her weight made her look so much older.  Fifth grade and abandoned on Halloween.  I put a cold compress on her forehead.
"You're safe.  You are safe..."  I kept repeating.
"I can't... walk... back there...."  she wheezed "I can't make it...."
A younger member of her group came in.  
"I wanted to check on Umba.  Umba, you okay!?"  I was glad someone cared.
"She can't walk back.  I am going to give her a ride home.  You guys Trick or Treat.  Umba, where do you live?".  I handed her a piece of paper and pen, to write the address.  She couldn't write.  Her eyes remained slits, her breathing heavy.  The boy wrote it down.  Hank Aaron, right by the stadium.   

There was a slight tapping on the door.  Should we open it?  Was it for real or some sort of trick?  Alicia and I looked at each other.  This stupid drill had been going on for over a half an hour.  We sat still, crunched under the desks. 

"Hey, we go with her!" the adult chanted, cheerily.  I hadn't anticipated loading six people, including a few really little kids, into the car.  I mean, really?  Umba was sick.  This wasn't a free fucking taxi.  "Her Umba, you ride her on your lap" the adult instructed, putting a child on Umba.
"Umba's sick.  Someone else needs to hold her" I responded and instructed the child to the back seat.  They crammed in.  As I was starting the car, my brother in-law ran up.
"I got this" he said, instructing me out of the car.
I watched him pull out, carefully dodging trick or treaters.  And then they were gone.

I stared at the marigolds, the pretty colonial buildings, the altars.  I have never been to Morelia before and have been wanting to go for a while.  When I stepped off the plane and walked across the runway and through the sliding doors of the airport Friday afternoon, I was surprised how comfortable and happy I was just to be in Mexico, if only for a couple of days.  

I felt bleary. A week had passed in three days.   I loaded my work bag into the car Monday morning, having returned to Atlanta a few hours before.  

I paused.  There was a little pile of candy on the floor.  Where did that come from? What?

And then I remembered Umba...
 

Kaup Jai Lai Lai

"Unfortunately, we will not be able to visit the King Center or the Carter Presidential Library while we are in Atlanta, due to the government shutdown".

Great.  The Fulbright program that has been the main reason why I continue to teach is no longer funded, after sixty-five years, due to the sequester and general assholery in D.C.   When I say not funded, I mean it's over, done, no longer.  Now the fucking federal government can't even keep its ass open so one of the last workshops of my beloved program can host a pinche cultural visit in Atlanta.

"So, where you from? What you do here in Atlanta?"
"Oh, I live here.  I'm just working a conference in the hotel".
"Okay, I get you your beer".
I don't like speaking with bartenders.

"We are sorry to announce that Richard Zolinski, U.S. State Department representative of Cultural Affairs, was unable to travel to Atlanta, due to the federal government shutdown.  He wanted you to know that he is here in spirit".

"What kind of conference?".
"It is an international conference, teachers that are from a lot of places, teaching here this year in the U.S.".
"My daughter teacher.  University.  But only part time work".
"That happened to me last year.  Only part-time work.  Were you...born in the U.S.?"  I asked carefully, knowing the answer was no.
"Nooo!"
"Wait, wait, let me guess.  Sorry, let me do this.  Cambodia?"
"Close!"
"Alright, Laos?"
"Wrong!"
"Vietnam?"
"Only one lefffft!"
"Holy shit, Thailand!"
"Yes!"
"Okay, which part?"
"I from a small town, called Bangkok".
We were both laughing.  Kind of screaming laughing.
"Tell me where you been..."
Oh...where I've been...so many places that I have been...so lucky that I have been...

I remember my first workshop as a grantee in the program. I had received notification a couple of weeks before and after all the waiting, things went into high speed.  Direct flight to D.C. into Reagan, at a convenient time.  Posh ass hotel.  Cash handed to me on arrival to be sure I didn't pay for my cab from the airport out of my own pocket.  As I sat in our first meeting, dressed up and nervous, Richard greeted us:
"On behalf of the U.S. Department of State, we would like to thank you for your time, for taking time out of your schedules to be here and participate in this program".
That is just not something us bottom class of public school teachers hear very often.  Or never. It felt important, like we really were valued.
"Wow, we're not in DeKalb County anymore" my co-worker from Atlanta whispered to me. 

"So, we ate everything we could see.  People told us Bangkok was a shit-hole but we loved it...so much to do, so much beauty..."
"Yeah but that plane!  Nineteen hours in plane!".
"Oh my God, no shit.  I made the mistake of watching the monitor, you know, where the little plane is sitting over the ocean".
"You watch that thing!  It horrible!  I drink beer and sleep!"

"Wait, what do you mean?" I asked one of the other alum that was working the conference. 
"She doesn't have a job anymore, it's over".
"Yeah, I know it's over, but I thought...I thought she would stay on and work with the other Fulbright programs.....what is happening?".
I can't make up any more fake names for her.  She made my Fulbright exchange happen, first from the Commission in Mexico and later supported me from orgs in D.C. that administered the grant.  She has been the only non-family person that has stuck with me through thick and thin, the only person that has told me for the last five years that I have been doing something good, more than good, honorable, in the classroom.

"Her job is done in two weeks".