Notes from public school - day 25

We All Have A Story To Tell.

A sign with these words is hanging on the ‘writing’ wall in my classroom.

It’s true, you know.

We do.

I love to tell stories.

I follow in the footsteps of my grandpa, one of the last of the old southern farmer-storytellers who sat in swings beneath live oak trees each evening and spun yarns about their own lives and about the wider world.

I love to listen to stories, too.

At lunch yesterday, I sat across from Mauro.

“Would you tell me a story?” I asked.

“Hmmm,” he thought.

Suddenly his eyes lit up and he smiled.

“Would you believe my mamí and papí were in the civil war in Guatemala?”

“Wow,” I said. “ Could you tell me about it?”

“They fled their village one dark and scary night, as gunshots echoed through the mountains and smoke rose from the trees of the forest nearby...”

4th graders can be good storytellers, by the way.

He finished his story.

“I’m so lucky to be here,” he said.

I looked into his earthy brown eyes.

He looked back into my sky blue eyes.

“Mauro,” I said, “There’s one thing I want you to know. I’m glad you’re here.”

I am.

I’m lucky to be his teacher.

I’m thankful we’re part of each other’s stories.

I wrote this poem about migration.

It’s for Mauro and all of my other students who have traveled the migratory road.

My

Heart

Loves home

Winter snow

Spring mountain flowers

Summer salt in the deep, wide sea

Fall leaves on the colorful trees are art for my heart

With tears in eyes, my heart pulls on it’s brown tattered coat, black holey shoes and red wool scarf

My heart is so tired, poor, huddled, wretched, homeless and tempest-tost. It loves it’s memories, family, home but it is time for me to go

Too many cold, deserted eyes at checkpoints in lonely streets pointed guns at my heart; too many clouds in rainy seasons empty of rain brought pain to my heart; too many coughs from my children's chests late into night broke my heart

My heart picks up it’s battered suitcase, with tape all around the ends, lest it break open and spill out my father's favorite shirt, a love letter, a picture of my beautiful children, all I have in the world, onto the ground

Deep in the hull of a ship tossing on stormy seas; high on the roof of a train winding down a long, steep hill; barefoot on a dusty road

Silent, back to back, knee to knee, with poor women and little children…immigrant hearts

With each step along the way our hearts whisper, "Help us"

With each mile we long for, "I care"

We hope for kindness

Immigrants

Moving

Our

Hearts

- Trevor Scott Barton, poems for a brown eyed girl, 2019