Them and Me

It dawns on me, finally, what she's asking, obliquely, from three different angles. It just never would have occurred, though it's not, in the end, such a crazy question, such a proposal recently on some ballot.

"No," I shake my head with certainty. "It would not be illegal to invite this family into your home."

And I scrape up some kind words, thank her sincerely for her care and concern, and try to do right in my default position as ambassador and emissary. In other words, I do not say, "Lady, there is no way these people are going to come stay with some random white woman, no matter how big your house or how crowded their lives." But I do say that I will pass along her offer, trying gently to explain how this community takes care of its own.

This morning I did what I promised, relayed what the biology teacher is willing to do, minus all the conditions and concerns for liability.

The responding, "really?" is full of surprise, but I'm not when it's followed by a blunt, "That's nice, but it's just too much." Some borders aren't crossed. I vaguely nod as I reiterate the kindness behind her gesture, the impulse to help, and then conclude: "not that it'll ever happen." The girls laugh, knowingly, automatically including me, who has crossed so many lines and born so much witness. These two I've known since the beginning, since they really were kids, before they were mine.

The verbal tic of teachers to call their students "my kids" once grated on my last nerve. Granted, my default position is to be annoyed by educators--go figure--so perhaps expecting the unprofessional or the insincere I found it. Anymore, though, I can't stop saying it. And nothing else fits, my concerns stretched way past student. Given the size of my group, what they share unbidden, there's just no distance. Their habit--perhaps they're even taught it--is to keep their circle small, and since I have the trust, I'm the first stop by default.

So, in a week like this one, when our foundation has been shifted, kicked off-kilter, it all comes tumbling out through the cracks. Details of family life that just need an ear. Talk of drinking that sounds serious--thank goodness the counselor's a friend. Teen parents that still won't come to school until "tomorrow." Nearly grown boys who wonder if maybe they should just work, at least one who quits to find out. Thank baby Jesus for the freshman duo whose biggest concern this week was if they should really go out for soccer lest their skin become too dark in the sun. (Their mothers won't approve.)

Though chunks of Monday were indeed lost to the news of the weekend, the rest of our time was indeed devoted to school--how they love Frankenstein--and helping Li navigate her classes (two weeks in the U.S.; what must she be thinking!), with those larger realities filling the minutes before, and after, and in between. And lunch. And my ironically named plan time. They just know where to find me, and being found is all I can do. And, after all, I'll soon get a break. Retreat across the river to await the Sunday football (to be fair, my kids could tell you this, too, about Ms. P. and the Packers; the sharing is not all one-way) and Not Think About It for three whole days, though I will, in between the forgetting. But I won't have to live it, and that's a huge difference. The advantage I couldn't trade if I wanted, the gap no amount of empathy will fill. There is somehow still a border between them and me, a smudge of a line that will never be crossed.