Tomás
In my classroom, there is a little boy from Honduras.
He speaks Spanish — that is the language of his heart — but he is learning English and tries with all his heart to learn new words and strange phrases that will allow him to live in his new world here.
He is 9 years old, with dark hair 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 at night off a pool of calm water.
He has big dimples that catch teardrops when he laughs until he cries, or when he cries until the sadness in his heart resides.
He has a broad smile that is sometimes mischievous but most times full of joy.
Sometimes I wonder ... what is he thinking as he closes his eyes at the end of the day, or opens them at dawn?
"I hope my new world will embrace me," he thinks tenderly, "and not call me an illegal alien ... and not try to tear me apart from my Aunt ... and not try to tear me apart ... and not place me in the shadows ... and not make me a shadow.
Mamí, 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.
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, and 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, and 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 am afraid, mamí. Help me. I am afraid of the dark. I don't want to be a shadow."
Is this what he is thinking?
On a Friday, I, his teacher, am 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, 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 ... Tomás."
That look of hope and happiness, the face of Tomás, the life of Tomás, is what I hope you see when you hear the word 'immigration.'
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