School Pictures

In my classroom, there’s a little boy from Honduras. 

He speaks Spanish — that’s his heart language — but he’s learning English and tries with all his heart to learn new words and phrases that will allow him to live in his new world here. 

He’s 9 years old and his dark hair is cut across his forehead in a wonderfully crooked line. 

He has deep brown eyes the color of a plowed field, and eyes that sparkle like starlight off a lake 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 subsides.

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?

Is this what he thinks?

"I hope my new world will embrace me, and not call me an illegal alien ... not tear me apart from my Aunt ... not tear me apart ... not put me in the shadows ...not make me a shadow.

Mamí, can you hear me? 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, in Honduras, I was a human being. 

I walked beside you, mamí, with my hand in yours, over the alfombras, the colored sawdust carpets on the streets, on Viernes Santo, Good Friday, and it was good because I was with you and with people who love me. 

I sat beside you, mamí, with 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 I loved you, and you loved me, and I was a human being.

Here, in America, 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.”

Is this what he’s 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 words ‘immigrant’ and 'immigration.'

I hope you see Tomás.