She has a name, but I won’t write it here. For the record, I’ll call her “Wren”. A couple of days ago, Wren approached me, her daybook resting in her open hands like a sort of unsolicited burnt offering. Her normally lowered eyes met mine as she straightened her spine and willed herself to address me: “I’d like you to read my entry for today, if you don’t mind.”
Please understand that there WAS no assignment today that required her to turn in her daybook, as this book exists for the sole purpose of personal reflection within the confines of the classroom and its content. I have always told my students that I am honored to read anything they feel comfortable sharing, but that I will never force them to give their thoughts to me, as they are their own, and I believe that they need, and deserve, a safe place to catalog those thoughts without fear of judgement. So I took it, expecting to read the somewhat simplistic musings of an 18-year-old girl in need of a little teacher reassurance. If only it had been that simple…
When time allows, I open the glossy fuchsia and white journal that is decorated with a golden seahorse. It looks much like something my daughter would love, all candy and paper combined. Aged photos (added when asked to attach a focal point or method and means of motivation) depict family members and friends who enjoy spending time together. Two sisters share the same duck-lipped pout in the selfies (or is it “ussies”?! I don’t speak their English, it seems…) taken on a boardwalk by the shore. A boyfriend and girlfriend hold hands while standing in front of a red brick wall that looks a lot like a church social hall (it’s always the telltale low ceilings). From the opposite page, a toddler in a blue and white striped shirt decorated with a green whale stares back at me. He wears neat brown leather sandals and thin gold bracelets around his wrist. If I were to encounter this child at the park while with my children, I would seriously consider squeezing one of his cheeks. In another photo, a young girl “dabs” a la Cam Newton and every preteen I’ve seen for the last two years. It is a book whose beginnings are constructed painstakingly and with love to spare.
In her first daybook entry dated August 31st, she reflects on the positive influence her parents have when they reprimand her, understanding that “they contribute positively by trying to help you, giving you the resources you need, giving you advice and talking to you about life while encouraging you to be a better person.” No, really. She wrote that. On September 1st, she writes “At this point in my life, I’m a baby bird because I will eventually grow up and be free…when a bird is born, it needs a parent’s guidance…I feel that right now my parents are teaching me how to do things on my own and everything I need to learn so that I can then fly away by myself and enjoy life…I want to be a loving, caring, respectful, and helpful woman towards others, live life before I’m gone, and not regret things I didn’t do…Love for me is the key to happiness. To love yourself, family, friends, everything.” In her next entry, she states that she wants to be a social worker or a psychologist so that she can help children who have been abused. Oh, to be that self-aware before the age of 20…
In an effort to encourage healthy dialogue, my students often research and discuss current events. They question them. Really dig into the hows and whys. They examine the reasons behind the results, as well as the possible results of the results. At the beginning of September, they began researching DACA. The processes and guidelines. The misconceptions. The realities. The human beings affected by the possible ending of this program.
On September 8th, “Wren” writes the following:
“This topic is hard for me at the moment because I am a DACA student. My parents brought me and my sister to the U.S. at the ages of 4 and 5. I’ve been here for more than 10 years. I have lived my life here. I don’t know anything or anyone from the place I was born. My dad came to the United States at age 15 to help his family. He didn’t want to come, but was obligated by his own father and uncles. He didn’t know anyone or anything about the United States at that moment. He built my grandparents a house and gave his sister an education. My parents brought us here to give us a better future. My parents left my sister and I for almost three years with my grandparents. I remember talking with them through the phone, asking when they were going back. I would sing to them. When my parents heard about DACA, they immediately wanted to apply for us. We applied, and they asked for so much evidence. For example, elementary records, middle school records, where we live, report cards…everything. And it wasn’t free. We had to pay $400 just to send the application to immigration, and pay $90 for the fees. In total, for my sister and I, my parents had to pay around $1000, and that was for only two years. We had to wait for our approval and appointment. When we got it, we had to go to Charlotte to get fingerprinted and have our pictures taken. After those two years. I had to renew it, and it happened again last week when I was absent. The first time, my parents went inside the building with me. Last week they didn’t because they were scared. Later, I heard the news about DACA being taken away and it was the hardest thing to hear. What am I supposed to do now that my dreams are gone? For the past 2 days I keep asking myself if school is important if I’m not going to be able to go to college. There hasn’t been a day my parents talk about my future now. For the past two days I have seen my sister cry, saying that she doesn’t have a future now. At work, they told her to drop out, asking what was the point of going if she wouldn’t be able to work? How are we supposed to go back to a country I don’t know? To people I don’t know? Things are not good in Mexico. Last night my parents were talking and I heard how they were thinking of sending us to Mexico after our DACA expires. This whole week I’ve been thinking about it. We’re not criminals. We harm no one. That’s why they give us a background check. We just want a future. Everyday after school, my mom calls us to make sure we’re going home. She doesn’t want us driving everywhere now. We are terrified.”
I struggled with closing the daybook after that, because I felt her entry deserved to be let out. Felt by the world. Read by you, especially if you still struggle with your thoughts and feelings about DACA. And she is not the only Dreamer I see. Several sit in my classroom on a daily basis, working tirelessly and with a most valiant effort to get everything I’m giving. They ask questions. They email when they’re going to be absent, requesting assignments so that they do not get behind. (My own children don’t do that without prompting.) Though their numbers are relatively small, they contribute, on the whole, more than my natural born citizens ever have. I know that may sound ugly, but it is the honest truth. Most of us who were born in the United States are draped in a blanket of comfort that only comes with never having to consider going back to a place that never existed for us. It is a fear that I cannot imagine.
I honestly don’t know what to do with this now. With her fear or with my feelings. I know that she deserves all she has earned. I know that she deserves to go to college. She deserves to fly on her own, especially when helping people is at the center of her final destination.
As it stands now, I don’t know that we, as a country, deserve her. We don’t deserve her bright smile. Or her work ethic. Her desire to help others. Her kindness. Her unrelenting love of a country that isn’t loving her well.
I think she might deserve better than what we have to offer. And we should be ashamed that it has gotten this far.
Read Me Like a Book 