moving

Three bedrooms, 2 baths, a 2-car garage: a split-level American dream.

"It's over in those rich-people houses," explains a classmate, with a wave of her arm. I picture her home and know she's sincere.

But I am pleased for whomever it is I am pleased for, the aunt, I believe, of a now-former student, a kid I have taught for only a few weeks. This new home is outside of our boundaries--one catch on their happy new day. I have met but do not know the new owners; I do know the type: an extended family, working hard, making do. And now it seems they've made it pay off. A house! And not a rental. An accomplishment here almost unknown. A nice house, in a nice neighborhood-- on a cul-de-sac, honest-to-goodness. A deck and a pool in the yard. I catch myself beginning to picture the looks they may have already gotten in that suburb built by white flight, but for now I shrug the image away. Such thoughts and such people are, in the end, irrelevant. Perhaps that's the lesson of the day.

"Buena suerte," I say, and shake his offered hand. I feel hopeful as I wish him good luck.