once upon a time

I feel so protective, when somebody says, "Their lives must have been so terrible there," or some variation on that theme. In my mind I take half a step forward, stretch my arms out in some futile gesture. Proud, counterproductive mother bird.

Who sighs and stammers and thinks of the once-little kids from both dusty villages and teeming cities who would never say they had terrible lives. Because in their minds they didn't. And who am I to say.

"People want to provide for their families," I say, answering a different question. "People do the best they can."

But sometimes I tell this story.

I tell them of the time we had a big Cinco de Mayo deal over at the middle school for all six hundred kids, a chance for my students to read and write and speak English disguised as a party. It was my best birthday ever, but that's a different tale. Before that posole and tres leches cake and dancing, we got ready. For weeks, we got ready, I'm pretty sure. We made decorations and videos and practiced dances and spent more of my money than I ever added up at the Mexican store. They were so excited, the bottom line became whatever it took. And the kids made these display boards like they use at the science fair, except they covered the cardboard with photos and facts about the Battle of Puebla (May 5, 1862) and life in Mexico. About home. They would be expert, for once.

We had glossy 8 x 10s of cathedrals in Morelia printed out at Walgreens and drawings of Tenochtitlan elaborately framed in colored paper and painstakingly written essays that I forced people to read. Those kids were so proud. But I don't recall any of them being any more excited than the eighth grader who called me over, face all lit up, when she found an online photo of her former Juarez neighborhood:

"Ms. P.! That's where we used to play when I was little! Every day! Can I print it out?"

I remember trying to reconcile the joy in her voice with the smokestacks in the photo. I remember trying to read the caption as she chattered about the games she would play with her friends. Turns out her playground was a lead smelter, and she used to play in its dirt.