The hardest part

"My house looks like a flea market, I swear."

Rosa shakes her head, still deadpan, describing the chaos that has descended on her disciplined home.

And we smile, but our expressions are tired, as if this new phase had been wearing on for weeks and not days. Two extended families in a space meant for one, little kids jarred out of routines, excited for playmates, anxious for daddy. An uncle who might have drawn the agents' attention. Everything normal slipped away, gone.

"Do you know what it's like to see a cop car and wonder?"

She knows I don't, not directly.

"I didn't sleep on Saturday. . .now the hardest part is the babies, crying at night for their father." She's just talking to me as she works through the papers. I'm just listening from my desk. We're just going through the motions, feeling for our routine. Because school, school never changes, and sometimes that's a plus.

While all of us, to some degree, are concerned about the boy whose household is being dismantled by a sudden deportation, the most common comment, even among his friends, is some variation of, "that could have been me."

"I could be here one day, and gone the next," they say, as if the thought never occurred and maybe it didn't.

"I never thought that would happen, but it did."

"I know."

And now what do we do?

At the moment they're still waiting for things to settle, living in limbo, time frozen by ICE. Decisions have consequence and not everyone is innocent, but these kids, they're just at the mercy. Learning the lessons, hoping to influence adults who may or may not do what they wish.

Twice today I saw Rosa turning her state ID over in her hands. It's real, but it's a tiny shield, insufficient, and soon useless. 9/11 has guaranteed that. I suppose that would please many to know that this girl, so Americanized but not American, cannot get whatever we have coming. Cannot trade in on the clothes her mother washes or the the food she serves or the taxes that she does, in fact, pay.

"I know people say in Mexico you can at least be free"--yes, those were her exact words--"but I just can't picture my life there." Her mother is talking about returning, maybe moving to Joplin, the future of this most stable home uncertain, up in the air. And that, for us in the classroom, is the real smack to the gut, the reason for the shift in our mood. If this life can end so abruptly with a knock to the door, well, then, now what? How best to go on?