I’ve written deeply and widely about the immigrant students in my elementary school.
I’ve spoken broadly about how much they and their families mean to me.
I stand hand in hand and heart to heart with them.
I call out for human rights and immigration reform for them in this time when they are scapegoated by political demagogues who use them as ways and means to advance their political careers.
I love them.
There are many reasons why.
Here’s one.
Just before lunch, I walked by a friend’s classroom.
She was working with a student who was with me last year for the first few months of school.
He’d spent the last few days with me because his family hadn’t sent in the permission slips he needed to go on two field trips with his 5th grade classmates.
“I’m so happy you’re back in my classroom,” I said to him as I patted his shoulder. “You’re the best.”
He’s walked a long, hard road in his 10 years.
You can see it in his deep, brown eyes and hear it in his soft, quiet voice - a sadness and timidity that shouldn’t be in the face and heart of one so young.
My teacher friend stepped out of her room when she saw me.
“I’m about to cry,” she whispered to me.
“Can you believe it, when I finished working with Dionicio, he asked if he could clean my table for me. He’s so thoughtful and kind.”
Yes, I can believe it.
He comes to us from the farms and fields of Guatemala.
He’s a treasure.
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