a wish

He is the poster child come to life. Born in California, raised in Mexico, he is one of those that we are warned about: an American by paperwork, by technicality, here to take ours away. I mean to help him, but not for spite. I mean to help him the best that I can.

Right now that birth certificate means little on his long road to a better life. He is a seventeen year-old with a sixth grade education. Do the math; I'm not sure he can. But he can fix cars: he is a mechanic, by skill though not certification. He has been learning that trade since he was a boy, and though my first reaction is, "Good. You'll make money, regardless," I have another dream. I'm not sure if it's his, too--our mutual languages have not yet advanced to be certain of these finer points--but my wish for him is an accumulation of paper: certificates or transcripts or whatever it takes to show he is a real mechanic who can get a real job, and not just work underneath the shade tree. It's a vision that may be a fantasy. Maybe, maybe not.

It'll take English, then a GED, then whatever. It's a long road, as I've said. If we had a few extra months for him at the high school, we could get him into tech school--assuming the English, assuming the math, assuming the credits-- assumptions I would never make. But though he knows this is already Plan B, that there have been, already, complications, he is eager and he is undaunted. "Me gusta inglés," he says, and everyday he learns more. His hope may not last, but I choose to believe. And I cross my fingers for my fellow citizen.

Elections Have Consequences, again

Obama To Overturn Bush 'Conscience' Rules
by Julie Rovner


All Things Considered, February 27, 2009 · The Obama administration is moving to rescind another controversial Bush administration abortion policy.

The regulation, known as the "conscience clause," took effect on the former president's final day in office. It allows health care workers to decline to provide or participate in any service that violates their conscience.

Next week, according to Obama administration sources, the Department of Health and Human Services will begin the process to formally rescind the regulation. But it will also ask the public to comment on the move for 30 days.

"We believe that this is a complex issue that requires a thoughtful process where all voices can be heard," said an administration source who was not authorized to be quoted by name.

The source said that following the comment period, the administration could decide to simply overturn the Bush administration rule and take no further action. Or it could issue a new rule to further clarify existing conscience protections that have long existed in federal law.

"We feel there is an important balance to be struck, but we feel the Bush rule unnecessarily imposed new restrictions on women and providers when it comes to health care," said the source.

Bush officials said the rules were needed to protect health workers from being pressured to participate not just in abortions but in activities they might equate with abortion, such as providing the so-called morning after birth control pill. Because that pill is thought to be able to prevent implantation of a fertilized egg, some consider it a form of very early abortion.

But critics of the rule say it is written so broadly that it could allow workers to decline to participate in many other types of sensitive medical procedures, from blood transfusions to end-of-life care. And in parts of the country with few medical providers, those refusals could put patients at risk, those critics contend.

Listen up

"This man is very smart, and I think he seriously means that he wants to restore America."
--Allison's mom

Former journalists gather here

I suppose it's about time I weighed in. And today is an apt day. In a prior life, I was a newspaper reporter -- a reasonably good one even. I won some awards, at least.

I flamed out about 13 years ago, though I have to do the math each time. The fire still burns, though the pilot light goes out frequently. Every election, every homicide, and every now and then, I miss it. Not today. And not lately.

I left on my own terms, kind of, but I have no regrets. But I still feel for my Gazette colleagues, both those now jobless and those left behind. Even my first newspaper boss isn't popping champagne.

getting ready

Two girls are huddled in front of the computer, consulting each other as they click. Their tones are hushed, too serious for homework. Too intent, too eager for anything academic, they are, I wager, instead focused on school. It's a study hall, and I give them a little time.

One asks me how to spell the name of a favorite store, and my suspicions are confirmed. The coronation dance is on the horizon and these tenth graders are somewhere between plotting and dreaming. They are girls being girls.

Right before I pull them back out of their organized fantasy--a history of cooperation and diligence buys indulgence, but only some--I watch them consult the spirit week list posted on the door and carefully copy the daily themes into a planner. A study skill in action, at least.

"M-a-r-o-o-n," spells out one to the other. "What's that?" When she's reminded, she giggles. I smile to myself at the ESL tell, and then I listen to another tale of two cultures:

"I don't even know if I'm going," admits her sixteen year-old friend, "My mom says I might need to be older." I'd be surprised if she even got to play Cinderella, knowing her mother, but I keep that thought to myself. It could happen, after all. It's possible that she'll get to live out her plans. And it's a nice thought, here for a while.

Blago's Last Laugh

flashback

In tribute to the news out of Detroit that Pontiac may cease to be even sooner than the rest of GM, here again is the tale of the only Pontiac I ever owned and owned and owned.

The Sunbird
originally posted January 28, 2007

This is a story of a woman and a car. Once upon a time, the woman was young and the car was new. She was on the verge of graduating from college, and the car, though not fancy, seemed cute and comfortable and reliable enough to take her out into the world. If nothing else, it was a definite upgrade from the Chevy Nova she'd been driving for six years. As it turned out, she and the car would be together for a long, long time, though the car, had it been capable, may have wished for a different fate.

In the beginning, of course, she took special care of it, and invested wisely in ArmorAll and oil changes. It was a real disappointment, then, when Kenny, her fellow student teacher, busted one of the air vents on a ride to lunch when the car was mere days old. And it was sadder still when the woman accidentally drove down a freshly oiled street when the odometer was still in the triple digits. The paint was never was the same.

Nevertheless, the car was dependable, and the woman and her friends took it to Memphis and back, and then to Memphis and back again. The woman graduated and drove the car through all those endless Illinois cornfields looking for a job. Finally, at interview number 13, she halfway succeeded (the work was part-time), and she moved her car out into the country, racking up the miles to visit civilization, and her friends (both the close by and out of state), and the homebound students she took on for extra cash. Soon enough, she got married and moved to another town, and she and the car continued their commuting life, first across the Illinois prairie and then around the St. Louis highways.

Three years into their relationship, the woman towed the car to Green Bay behind a moving truck, paying extra for an undeground parking space so as to protect the car from the Wisconsin elements and herself from the drudgery of cleaning them off. A year later, she and a puking, shedding, nervous wreck of a cat drove the car to Iowa, where she would be happy but the cat and the car would be less so. Getting the car moving in the cold Iowa mornings developed into an elaborate ritual involving cans of starter fluid and depressing the gas pedal in a way no one but the woman could master. So maybe that's why, when she cracked the rear bumper on an on-coming car (yes, that does take skill. or tragic inattention when one backs out of the driveway) and scraped yellow paint from a concrete pylon at the bank onto the front fender fixing those cosmetic flaws was a low priority. Surely the car was on its way out. Alas, financial priorities change, especially when news of a new baby is received, and since the car was basically trustworthy (though touchy) and thorougly paid for, it stayed, both long enough to trade its Wisconsin plate for not one but two Iowa models and to deliver that baby home.

The same year the baby arrived, the woman and her family moved to Indianapolis, and the car came too. The car became well acquainted with the "boys down at Firestone," but they drove it as long as they could--right up until it started randomly losing power on the freeway as the woman delivered her work to the office each morning. Adventure is grand, just not on I-465. Now, at that point, believe it or not, that car was the only one the woman and her family had: the husband's car had been totaled back when they lived in Iowa, and, Iowa City being manageable on one car, they'd kept the cash and tried life with a single vehicle. That was less workable (read: a huge pain in the ass) in a larger city, so once a new car was acquired, the woman was tempted to keep the Sunbird to see if it could be resurrected, so she did. Their itinerant life being what it was, it was now time to move again, so they towed the car back to Illinois and dropped it at a trusted mechanic's. And hark! there was a miracle. While the Indiana mechanics had planned to gouge $450 to "maybe" fix it, the woman's new best friend in the whole world found a loose connection, charged $40 for his time, and restored the woman's faith in humanity and her place as a member of a two-car family. Hallelujah, indeed.

The woman abused the good nature of that car for two more years and thousands more miles, but even she agreed it was time to give it up at the end of mile 168,000. But what to do? It certainly had little value according to Kelly or any other expert. And she really didn't want to sell it to someone who'd know where to find her, its maintenance--except for the oil changes, her father having drilled that right into her head--being as spotty as it was. The solution? Donate it! Surely the non-profit would just sell it for whatever parts remained anyway, and she could walk away with a clean conscience. Which she did.

The non-profit had other plans, though, and so did the car: not long after she gave it away, the woman saw it on the road. There was no mistake: it was always easily recognizable, given the bumper, the fender, the Bluenote in the back window and the local tax stickers in the front. Now, however, it was even more identifiable. The new license plate? SEXY 64. The woman was chagrined, and momentarily wanted to rescue her car from whomever had that kind of vanity, but at least the car was still going. We should all hope to endure so much and last so long, she thought. The woman's entire family knew the story of SEXY 64 and would occasionally see it around town, or even further afield than they'd think safe to drive it. Heads shaking with disbelief, they'd update each other on what had rusted or faded or fallen off the car that would not die. Eventually, the car was spotted with a new license plate, and though the woman was relieved that the old car's honor was restored, she figured that this sighting might well be the last.

Which it was, until the phone rang today, seven years after the car was given away, sixteen years after it was new.

"Guess what I saw!" said the woman's husband. "The Sunbird!"

briefly

On August 1, 2012 he will be twenty-one. That age is the see-you-later drop-deadline for high school graduation: normal plus three extra years. I count the time on my fingers: 2009-10 is one, 2010-11, 2011-12. Plus this, one more-or-less semester. He won't make it, though it could be close. If this, if that, if the other.

I have had this talk before, initiated it myself. I have repeated in all sincerity, "High school is not the place for you. I think it's better if you go." I have talked of adult education, the free classes over at the college. I have walked a complication to the door and wished it all the best before I turned and sighed, relieved.

It's different this time, or not.

If his records had been read correctly, if, frankly, they had asked me, he would never have been enrolled. The sixth-grade credit the counselor granted him temporarily, accidentally, toward high school is what put him over the top, what pushed him over the line into, "okay, go ahead, take a shot."

And so for ninety minutes every day, we have been, just the two of us, by some miracle. Instead of the new kid getting, "One minute," and "I'm sorry," in the midst of some different, hectic class, he has gotten a private tutor. It'll be a short-lived luxury, and I'll miss it, when he's gone.

rewards

"HOLA SOY RAFA," was the e-mail subject line, all cut to the chase and appropriately bold, sent from a force to be reckoned with. The grindstone must be wearing away under this kid; I picture him as powering through. He tells me of working three jobs for eight months in order to save for an immigration lawyer. He tells me of gearing up to take on college calculus, "AGAIN," he asks his usual questions. Somehow I've become the fount of, "how does this work?" but I can't see that he needs me. I'm still glad he comes around. This boy will make it, circumstances be damned. I tell him, "I have to believe," and I do.

He was only my student for his senior year; I don't remember helping him much. I didn't even go to his graduation; unthinkable as that is now. But regardless and because, he has trusted me to know, so when this kid whom I so much admire says, "I hope we keep in touch," I take it as a compliment.

Day One

It's his first day of school since 2001. Seven years, no eight, since a desk and a teacher. His first day since he was ten.

We've been working for an hour, maybe more, when I realize. We have practiced introductions, spelled his name, begun at the beginning. He's shown that he knows the English alphabet, mostly, and more numbers than I expect. He now understands me when I repeat phrases like, "Open your notebook," or, "Write your name," commands that teachers give. We're working hard and we're smiling, each of us for our own reasons.

And then I try some math.

The gaps I see don't shock me or particularly surprise, but something does not, shall I say, add up, so I pause to figure it out. And in a conversation I cannot begin to transcribe, all Spanglish and cryptic notes and telepathy, I conclude, definitively, that the boy's education was not as I've been told. For once, I hadn't seen his papers.

"No secundaria?" I repeat, once more. He shakes his head; I nod. He looks at me a little warily.

"Okay," I say and again to the wordless question, "It is okay." A pause. "Tomorrow," I add, thinking of the algebra that is looming, "tomorrow, a different math."

As if it's that easy in a high school that has "raised its standards" by knocking out the steps. As if the fact that no one in the office noticed they were granting credits from a primary school report card--I confirmed it later--won't complicate day two. I know exactly what's ahead: more phone calls and paperwork, more compromise and confusion. A headache, guaranteed. And that's the best case scenario. But at the moment I only feel a good kind of tired because I taught, and my student learned.

good help

"Ms. P., you know how much I love you."

"What do you want?"

An enrollment form is brandished along with an Eddie Haskell smile. I so should have known. I never had a teacher aide until last year, and that was pure serendipitous necessity, a way to rescue a girl from a class she never should have taken. I don't have 160 students; I don't have dozens upon dozens of papers to grade. I don't really see much reason. But the wanna-be, gonna-be Seniors, oh, they have a different perspective. For months the three of them have maneuvered, begged, whined incessantly. Employed every teenage strategy guaranteed to elicit, "No."

I have attempted to explain, to point out the flaws within their plans. "How," I've asked, repeatedly, "is annoying the crap out of me"--at least I did not say hell--"supposed to persuade me to volunteer to spend extra time with you when it is not required?" The rejoinder and follow up are always the same: "So, can I?"

"NO!"

Until this time, when, way past weary, I have only one objection for this student who is not even mine.

"Why not?" he asks, up front, and I ponder. I like him; he makes me laugh. He's good natured and not mean. He does everything I say. He pays back borrowed lunch money and brought brownies he baked himself to the Christmas party. And, novelty of novelites, he's American: I'm intrigued at the potential to not explain every last thing.

And yet, one thought nags: "You know he'd kill me." I'm referring to his friend, his connection to my class. The relentless kid who has been campaigning for the post way longer than I can remember.

"You're never going to pick him anyway," he points out. This is oh, so true. Even if he asked until the day I retire, I'd never volunteer for that hardship duty. We bargain a bit, and I reach for his form. Make his day with a signature, and somehow mine, too. None of the above seems an excellent choice, despite the remaining catch.

"If you tell him, it's off, it's over, it's done," I say, straight-faced and firmly. The conversation may be inevitable, but later is better than now. My aide-in-waiting proposes revealing his new role to the nagger-in-question on the last day of school, so he can get over it during the summer. I find that kind of brilliant, in a wishful thinking way. And if it's a little weaselly, well, I started it, and I'm willing. I think we'll get along fine.

Drop-out Nostalgia

Elections Matter

Salazar Cancels Utah Oil And Gas Leases
by Deborah Tedford
from NPR.org

Interior Department Secretary Ken Salazar said Wednesday that he has canceled the leases for oil and gas drilling on dozens of parcels of land near Utah's famed canyon country.

Salazar said the Bush administration rushed to sell oil and gas leases near Arches and Canyonlands national parks, Dinosaur National Monument and Nine Mile Canyon as President Bush prepared to leave office.

The decision affects 77 parcels of public land near national parks, monuments and sensitive landscapes that were put up for bid in December. The parcels total about 130,225 acres.

Salazar said the parcels did not get the environmental reviews appropriate for sensitive landscapes. He said other last-minute Bush administration actions are under review.

"We need to responsibly develop our oil and gas supplies to help us reduce our dependence on foreign oil, but we must do so in a thoughtful and balanced way that allows us to protect our signature landscapes and cultural resources — in places like Arches National Park, Canyonlands National Parks, Dinosaur National Monument and Nine Mile Canyon — for future generations," Salazar said.

The canceled oil and gas leases are worth about $6 million. Bidders will get their money back. Salazar said some of the parcels may be offered for leasing in the future after the appropriate reviews are conducted.

Several groups had filed court papers challenging the leases last month. A federal judge granted a motion for a temporary restraining order on the 77 parcels on Jan. 17.

boomerang

"Why did you think I was lying to you?"

I look him in the eye: "Because you lied to me before." And his expression is either, "You have a point," or, "I shoulda thought of that." He doesn't argue or deny, just slips in, again a fugitive. My classroom a momentary hideout for a bad decision on the lam. Or so he thinks or so hopes as he does his delinquent homework and I check out his story, bust him once again.

I lay out the facts as I know them, again. He mounts a ritual defense. Neither one of us is angry. I'm either past it or gearing up.

"You realize," I pause, "that I am not your accomplice." There's a question in my voice.

His laugh says, "I was hoping," even as he denies the notion.

Soon enough he agrees that of the options presented going back where he belongs is the best. The taps on my keyboard to alert the authorities and clear my name accompany his exit.

Minutes pass. The door opens. The not-even-prodigal returns.

"It's lunch," he says, pre-emptively.

I look around for the magnet.