See. Know.

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

He speaks Spanish.

That is the language of his heart.

He is learning English, and he is trying with all of his heart to learn new words and strange phrases that will help him to live in his new world here. 

He is 9 years old.

He has 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 off a lake of calm water on a still Honduran night.

He has big dimples that catch teardrops when he laughs until he cries, or when he cries until the sadness in his heart overflows.

He has a wide smile.

Sometimes it’s mischievous.

Most times it’s full of joy.

Oftentimes I wonder.

What is he thinking as he closes his eyes at the end of the day?

What is he thinking as he opens them at sunrise?

Is this what he is thinking?

Is this what he is feeling in his corazón?

"I hope this new world will embrace me," he thinks tenderly, "and not call me an illegal alien.

I hope this new world won’t try to tear me apart from my Aunt.

I hope this new world won’t try to tear me apart.

I hope this new world won’t place me in the shadows.

I don’t want to be a shadow.

I’m afraid of the dark.

Mamí, can you hear me at 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 in Honduras, with you, 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. 

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 turn me into 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?

A kind woman stands at the door of a clothing room. 

She looks at him with kind, brown eyes.

She smiles at him with a bright, warm smile. 

"Hola, mi pequeño amigo," she says. 

She shows his aunt a room full of clothes, beautiful clothes, for children of all shapes and sizes. 

He picks out a shirt with a picture of a soccer ball on it, a pair of jeans, a pair of soccer cleats, and a warm jacket.

None of them are brand new, but all of them are new to him. 

They are clothes his family cannot afford to buy at a store. 

Yet here, in this place, they can pay a little money to help another family with their needs and take home some clothes they need for themselves.

He is so happy. 

"I wonder," the woman asks as he and his aunt say, 'Adios,' if I can write down anything you would like for me to pray about for you? This place is more than just clothes. It is a place to show love. Just clothes and love.”

She listens to his aunt and writes down their heartaches and their dreams.

She sees.

She knows.

This helps him remember that he is not a shadow.

The guidance counselor at his school calls him to her office at the end of the day. 

"Here is a backpack, Hilcias. 

It is filled with food that your family can use over the weekend. 

It is from a group that wants to make sure you have enough to eat before you come back to school on Monday."

How could she know that sometimes his family runs out of groceries by the end of the week? 

How could she know that they have only rice and beans?

How could she know that his aunt cooks them in the morning and they eat them for breakfast, lunch, and supper?

How could she know that he closes his eyes at night and dreams of meat, dreams of sweets, dreams of food? 

How could she know? 

She sees.

She knows

This helps him remember that he is not ashadow.

On a Friday, I, his teacher, am about to call out the winner of the 'student of the week,' an award I give to a student who has worked hard and behaved well for the whole, long week.

I wish you could see the hope in his eyes just before I call out the winner.

I wish you could feel the happiness in your corazón when I say, "The winner is Hilcias!”

The look of hope, the feeling of happiness, the face of Hilcias, the life of Hilcias, is what I hope you see when you hear the words ‘immigration’ and ‘refugee.’

See.

Know.