What to do

Although his Sunday sermon lacked both fire and brimstone, this week Frank Rich took us to task for the whole lot of nothing that has been going on stateside as the horrors in Iraq mount. "Good Germans" he called us, after those who claimed to know nothing of the Gestapo or its tactics, not knowing just being another way to say what could I do? Not my fault.

Because obviously we know, know to the Nth degree, rail against it, read and write about it, talk, bitch and argue, make token contributions, sign petitions, make the random phone call, sigh heavily, vote. And so what? It all adds up to nothing. I have this conversation every now and then, the one in which I express my disbelief and consternation that people aren't doing more and then confess that I'm not doing anything either. What the hell. How much would it take to tip the scales, make those with real power take notice and act? What good is it to win the leadership of a republic whose fabric is in tatters? I hate inaction and empty words. Especially when they're mine.

Yesterday, I sat down with a long-time student, listened again to her concerns. The frustrations and fears about work and college and driving without a license, and I told her again the short list of what I know. Which states she could go to. How much it might cost. The stalled legislation that would solve her problems, if only it would pass.

"But I need something now."

"I know you do. I'm afraid you're really kind of stuck. But all you can do is keep trying, and do the best you can with what you've got."

That advice frustrates me, too. Later, the counselor got her an appointment with an immigration attorney, fee waived. A wondrous gift. Most likely she will tell my student exactly what I did about her lack of options, but who knows. It's not as if the government is predictable, or consistent, or sane. Mostly I feel as if I should have made that call, not that I have any lawyerly connections. Shouldn't I, by now? It's not, perhaps, a rational thought, but it nags at me a little regardless.

These kids trust me to do what I can for them, even when they're new; I don't know why that is, exactly, but it's true. I know I help them day to day, but it often feels like rearranging deck chairs, or a BandAid on a gaping wound. And it makes me wish I were doing more about the Big Picture, ever askew in its frame, marring our blank wall and future view. Instead we walk by, push the corner momentarily straight and true, and then watch it slide right back, tauntingly crooked and off-kilter.

"Yep," we say with a shrug, "that's the way it always is."

But, surely, not always how it has to be.