Jeremy of Honduras

In my classroom, there is a little boy from Honduras. 

He speaks Spanish, it’s the language of his heart, and he’s learning English. 

He tries with all of his heart to learn new words and strange phrases that’ll allow him to live in his new world here. 

He is 9 years old. 

His dark hair is cut straight across his forehead in a wonderfully crooked line. 

He has deep brown eyes the color of a plowed field, eyes that sparkle like starlight off of a pool of still water. 

He has big dimples that catch tear drops when he laughs until he cries, or when he cries until the sadness in his heart resides. 

He has a broad smile that sometimes is mischievous but most times is full of joy.

I wonder...what is he thinking as he closes his eyes at the end of the day?

"I hope my new world will embrace me,” he thinks tenderly, "And not call me an illegal alien, not try to tear me away from my tia, not try to tear me apart, not put me in the shadows, not make me into a shadow.

Mami, can you hear me in the dawn? Will my words reach you over the land to the valley, between the mountains, to La Esperanza, to Honduras? 

Help me, mamí. 

Please. 

I don't want to be a shadow, here.

There, I was a human being. 

I walked beside you, mamí, my hand in yours, over the alfombras, the colored sawdust carpets on the streets...color, beauty, on Viernes Santo, Good Friday.

 It was good because I was with you and with people who love me. 

And I sat beside you, mamí, your arm around me, under the midnight fireworks, after the late-night dinner, on Nochebuena, Christmas Eve.

The colors sparkled in your eyes, and in the colorful light, I loved you, and you loved me, and I was a human being.

Here, I might become a shadow, mamí. 

Is there no Good Friday on people's feet? 

Is there no Christmas Eve in people's eyes? 

Are there only people, mamí, blocking the light, with angry faces and hateful words and violent hands, trying to make me a shadow? 

I’m afraid, mamí. 

Help me. 

I’m afraid of the dark. 

I don't want to be a shadow."

Is this what he’s thinking?

On a Friday, I’m about to call out the winner of the 'student of the day,' an award I give to a student who has worked hard and behaved well for the whole day. 

I wish you could see the hope in his eyes just before I call out the winner, and the happiness when I say, "The winner is ...Jeremy" 

That look of hope and happiness, the face of Jeremy, the life of Jeremy, is what I hope you see when you hear the word 'immigrant.”

He’s not a shadow.

He’s a light.