OPINION |
By Paul Karrer
It took me a while to notice a pattern with one of my students. This student is a very good student I must add. Serious about school.
She almost always put her head down when it rained. Sometimes she sobbed or cried softly to herself. Thirty-four students sat in the class. So it was beyond hard to individualize their needs. But when a great kid cries consistently even a very harried male 5th-grade teacher takes notice.
A bit more about her: I love this kiddo. She speaks Spanish, an Indigenous language, and English. She is the most adept with her Indigenous language. But her English is super. Which says a lot, because English is tough.
She won my heart during the first week of school. I’d park my car across from the school and walk the outside perimeter of the school grounds. And there she was waiting for me — every day. She sat on some steps, with her 6-year-old brother. They often busied themselves with homework until I showed up. He’s a cute little kid. If you’ve ever observed a Mayan stone stelae profile of a Mayan hero, that’s what this boy looked like.
Every day they’d wait. We’d walk together. The brother would hold my hand sometimes. Such a cute kid. One time, I’d missed a few days of school because I had a rotator cuff repaired. When I showed up that morning with my arm in a sling, the little fellow had tears on his cheeks.
I asked him, “Why are you crying?” I thought he was hurt or perhaps his sister had bullied him.
He replied, “You are hurt-ed.”
My wife and daughter didn’t even cry about my surgery. And here this little boy was upset. It made me cry.
So they won me over. Eventually, a light finally went on in my thick skull when the sister cried in class. I knelt by her desk and whispered so no one else would hear. “What’s up? Why are you upset?”
She pointed outside without even looking. It was raining. I asked, “The rain?”
She nodded.
I asked, “Why?”
She sobbed, “It is cold. My parents are pickers. They do the artichokes. It is muddy. It is hard for them. It makes me sad.”
Rather obviously, she was a sensitive child. She confessed one time. “My brother and I were not born here.”
It was something teachers weren’t supposed to ask the kids. And we didn’t, even if it was pretty easy to figure out. She added, “I’m afraid someday I’ll go home and our parents will be gone. Migra will have caught them. I will have to take care of us by myself.”
***
One time I was teaching the kids basics about having bank accounts. She asked with surprise, “Anyone can have a bank account? Even me?”
“Yes. Even you.”
“Can the police take it away?”
“No,” I told her.
She smiled and replied, “I’m going to tell my parents.”
I savor my morning walks with them. It is a nice way to start a day. Even nicer if it isn’t raining.
Enlarge
Have something to say about this story? Send us a letter.
SUPPORT NONPROFIT JOURNALISM 
GET OUR FREE NEWSLETTER
