en casa

I'm not sure that they know I'm being paid to be there, not that it much matters. I'd drop the new mom's homework off anyway, at least now and then. And I'm sure the hospitality would still be the same, with the well-practiced, "Thank you for coming," offered by my student's mother as she heads to her second job. "I'll be back," I respond, "tomorrow, the next day. . ." as I squeeze between the washer and dryer to go out the front door, but her "thank you" comes again, so emphatic that the final period is almost visible in the air, so I turn back once more and meet her eyes and smile and nod. "Yes. You're welcome."

And they are.



It's not as if I can't recognize that the situation is outside of the norm, at least by certain, once-accustomed standards. And I do drag that internal voice to the surface for a minute, just out of curiosity, to see what she says. After all, shouldn't this be odd? To be so relaxed in the bedroom my two students share, holding their baby, offering breastfeeding advice and the opinion that a real Mexican man can too change diapers, especially if he wants homework help from me--all while the mom gets to work on her Algebra? And I think about the low-rent, high-adventure neighborhood, and the old duplex apartment that is somehow both sparsely furnished and cramped, though tidier than I often manage. I can't come up with any part of town in which I'd stand out more, but I also can't think of many places I'd be more welcome. And I just can't make it feel strange.

When I get back to school, there will be those, even colleagues who offered baby outfits and twenty dollar bills, who'll want stories of where are they living and what don't they have. A little "there by the grace of God go I" to pass the afternoon, not that the concern and the care isn't real. And, honestly, even I expected a little more bleak around the edges, though perhaps it's there but colored by new-baby glow. The heart of this home, however, has been there all along, and does not feel strained by this new black-haired addition, or this boy, a thousand miles from his family, who's now the only father under the roof. There's a stock pot boiling on the stove, and a beaming grandmother, and pre-teen aunt who does not seem to know what to make of the extended conversation her sister is having with her boyfriend over the wisdom of spending $2 to wash his car when who knows when or where that $2 will be needed. I do not know how they will make it, but I have to like their chances.