UNITED NATIONS OF CHILDREN

This morning I volunteered in my 8 year old granddaughter's second grade classroom listening to kids read.  I do this every Tuesday.  I did the same, reading and spelling with kids, last year in her first grade classroom as well.  Last year I was part of the classroom, sitting at "my" table calling kids back one at a time usually to work with me, but still keeping an eye on what the teacher was doing, what they were working on, how the kids responded (or didn't) to her and the subject.  I helped remind kids to pay attention, gave them a wink or a nod or a finger wag as was appropriate, tied shoes, cleaned up desks, high-fived, chatted, laughed, even graded papers sometimes, and felt loved and appreciated by the kids and the teacher alike.  It was a beautiful experience.

This year I'm having a slightly different experience.  I'm not really part of the classroom.The teacher  has asked me to take one student at a time out to a desk in the hallway where we read together.  I am then to ask them comprehension questions about what they've read. I miss being in the classroom and wondered if I should request that she make room for me, but I realized this isn't about me; it's about working with the kids.

So, I show up and go down my list of about a dozen kids she wants me to work with.  I get through 4 or 5 each week.   Some blow me away with their advanced reading skills; some still struggle with the easiest of books; most are average and at grade level.  They all seem to enjoy reading, love library time, and are eager to share their books with me.  And it seems like 95% of them are "children of color" -- their ethnicities a veritable United Nations hodgepodge of mostly brown, black, middle eastern, and asian kids.

Today I worked with a girl who only speaks Spanish at home; a girl who was born in Pakistan but lived for her earlier childhood in Dubai; a boy from New Dehli; a girl from Mexico who told me "We might have to go back."; an African-American boy who cut his dreds and now sports a short Afro, which he likes.  I ask them about their lives outside of school, what they like to do, what their families are like, their favorite foods and TV shows; about their friends and favorite subjects; about customs and languages.  I try to speak Spanish and Arabic and they laugh at my mispronunciations.

When I show up on Tuesdays, some cling to me and ask "When is it my turn to read?"  I think these kids are starved for positive attention and a friendly adult who talks to them like people, not just students. Some are annoying, some are sweet, some are wicked smart, a couple have trouble behaving appropriately in a school setting --- all break my heart with their vulnerability.  Eight years old and many from single parent homes, some where siblings may be scattered, many where aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents live half a world away, some who don't get enough sleep, some who wear thick glasses, or have crooked teeth, or already feel like the 'nerd' or the 'troublemaker' at recess. Some tell me their parents work 2-3 jobs.  One girl says she has to wake up at midnight and go to a different apartment to sleep when her dad goes to work.

The whole school is full of these ragtag kids in mismatched clothing, fly-away hair, all shapes, sizes and colors, all creating a patchwork of cultures, experiences, and dreams.  The principal announced at a recent "Reach Around the World" family event (classrooms were set up featuring various cultures represented at the school:  Iraq, Mexico, Russia/Ukraine, Philippines, Guam, China, India, and more...) that 27 languages are spoken by the families of the students at the school.  I was amazed.  I tell every bilingual kid to always remember their original language.  Never forget their traditions.

But I worry about them too.  Especially now in this time of anti-immigration frenzy.  If only people could open their hearts and minds to these kids.  If only they could see the sweet, shy smiles; the open-hearted desire to fit in; the excitement for learning; the longing for friendship and community.  When I think of any of these kids being the target of discrimination or bullying or belittling or denigrating, my heart breaks and my blood boils.  How dare anyone say these kids and their families don't belong?  Don't deserve a chance in this land of opportunity?  How can they ignore that (in my experience) it is these "foreign" kids who are among the brightest, the ones who read all the time at home, (staying inside and safe in neighborhoods that are rough around the edges), their books as their constant companions?

Maybe one day I'll write a funny story about working at the school.  But today I hope I've written something inspiring, and yes, political.  When you hear about ICE raids, or immigration crackdowns, or that brown-skinned people come from countries that our president has deemed "shitholes", I hope you'll call me up and ask me to tell you the stories of these kids -- and then make your voice heard on the political stage in support of sane immigration policies that welcome instead of exclude.

We all came from somewhere else....except my granddaughter, who is partly Native American.  My daughter-in-law's first husband was Choctaw/Cherokee.  We white folks often forget that this country wasn't ours to begin with, so let's open up to a diversity that will enhance our country, not ruin it.

At least, that's the view from here....©