Soothed Beneath the Artist’s Loving Hand

I heard Don McLean’s beautiful song Vincent this morning.

Whenever I think about Vincent’s life and work I smile and am touched deeply in my heart.

I was especially touched by this verse from that song.

“Colors changing hue

Morning fields of amber grain

Weathered faces lined in pain

Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand,” wrote McLean.

Soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.

That’s the kind of artist I want to be.

That’s the kind of writer I try to be.

I hope you can see and here that in this small piece from my life as a teacher of immigrant children.

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

His name was Jeremy.

He spoke Spanish, of course.

That was his first language, the language of his heart.

He was learning English, though.

And learning it well.

He tried with all his heart to learn new words and phrases that would allow him to live in his new world of Greenville, S.C.

I knew how this was.

I speak English.

That is my first language, the language of my heart.

But I lived in the West African country of Mali for three years.

And when I lived there, I learned Malinke, the heart language of the people in my village and the neighbors all around me.

I tried with all my heart to learn new words and phrases that would allow me to live among the people there.

As we say in Malinke, “A tung xa xole.”

It was difficult.

I know it was difficult for Jeremy, too.

I know.

He was just 9 years old.

He had dark hair cut straight across his forehead in a wonderfully crooked line. 

He had deep brown eyes the color of the earth, eyes that sparkled like starlight off a pool of calm water on a moonless Honduran night.

He had big dimples.

They caught teardrops when he laughed.

They caught teardrops when he cried.

He had a beautiful smile.

Sometimes it was mischievous.

Most times it was full of joy.

I wonder.

What was he thinking when he closed his eyes at the end of a school day?

Maybe he was hoping that his new world would embrace him.

Maybe he was thinking he didn’t want to be called an illegal alien.

No human being should be called illegal.

Or an alien.

It is not a crime to try with all of your heart, soul, mind and strength for “una vida mejor,” a better life, for your family.

Which of us wouldn’t do anything to put food in the bellies, clothes on the backs, and roofs over the heads of those we love?

Which of us wouldn’t do anything to find a place that provided good medical care, a good education, and a livable wage for those we love?

If you say, “Not me!” to those questions, and, “Immigrants are animals!” to those neighbors, then I don’t want to be around you.

And that’s saying a lot, because I was voted the friendliest person in my senior class in high school and I’m still friendly to just about anybody.

Nope, I want you to be around people just like yourself and exist in a kind of purgatory where there is no love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.

Then you’ll see and hear and know what it’s like to be called an illegal and treated like an alien.

I want you to be a good human.

I want to be a good human.

Jeremy and his family were good humans.

As he closed his eyes, maybe he thought he didn’t want to be torn apart from his family.

I wouldn’t.

Maybe he was scared he would be torn apart from his family.

I would be.

I love my family.

So did he.

Maybe he thought he didn’t want to hide in the shadows.

I wouldn’t.

I want to be seen.

We all long to be seen.

So did he.

Sometimes when I close my eyes at the end of the day, I hear his voice.

I imagine what he might be saying.

Is this what he is saying?

“Mr. Barton, can you hear me? 

Are my words reaching you over the land, through the valley, between the mountains, to La Esperanza in Honduras? 

Help me, Mr. Barton.

Please. 

I don't want to be in the shadows.

In your classroom. I was a human being. 

I walked beside you, Mr. Barton.

I told you a story about the alfombras, the colored sawdust carpets on the streets of La Esperanza.

I told you a story about the color and beauty on Viernes Santo, Good Friday.

I told you a story about the midnight fireworks, the ones that lit up the zHonduran night sky after the late-night dinner on Nochebuena, Christmas Eve.

It was good because I was a storyteller with you, Mr. Barton. 

We were human beings, together, Mr. Barton.

But in the Estados Unidos, Mr. Barton, I was in the shadows.

Where was Good Friday on so many people's feet?

Where was Christmas Eve in so many people's eyes? 

Mr. Barton, why were people blocking the light with angry faces and hateful words and violent hands?”

I know you were afraid, Jeremy.

I was with you.

I know you were afraid of the dark. 

I was with you.

I know you didn’t want to be in the shadows.

I brought you into the light.

My feet will always be Good Friday for each and every immigrant student who walks into my classroom and into my heart.

My eyes will always be their Christmas Eve.

I will always be their salt.

I will always be their light.

Thank you for telling stories that taught me that, Jeremy.

Thank you for being my teacher.

God made me from the dirt, Jeremy.

Humbly.

For you.

My little buddy.

For everyone.

Yo estaba allí.

I was there.

Estoy aquí.

I am here.

Voy a estar aquí.

I will be here.

For you.

For all of my immigrant neighbors.

For everyone.