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Teaching While Undocumented
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Unit 4: Essential Question: Why do people take risks?
The high school campus is nearly empty, and the sun has long set, as I sit in the staff room planning the next day’s lesson. Suddenly an email from the Human Resources manager pops up on my screen: Julio, I have your W-2 in my office. Please come see me. My mind drowns among a million thoughts.
The following day goes by in slow motion. The anxiety builds up inside of me as the clock in my classroom ticks the seconds away. When the school day is over, I’m ready to face my truth. I slowly walk to her office, pause; take a deep breath.
“You wanted to see me?”
“We received this letter from the Social Security Administration,” she says, as she hands it to me, “I think we have your number wrong. Can you check your social security card and get back to me?”
I feel as if the room is shrinking, and I am trapped, with no way out. I battle the knot in my throat, force myself to smile and say, “Sure, I’ll check when I get home.”
When my mom comes home from work that night, she finds me working frantically on a substitute lesson plan. Her Clorox-stained clothes and the wrinkles on her hands caused by the house-cleaning chemicals remind me that I have a lot to be thankful for. I invite her into my room to give her the news.
“Mañana será mi último día.”
“How are you feeling, mijo?”
“Bien, mami. Everything’s going to be okay.” I try to sound as normal as possible. I don’t want her to see how much this hurts; I don’t want her to worry.
“God has a plan for all of us. He has something better planned for you.” Her words are comforting.
The following morning, I arrive on campus early. My classroom feels peaceful. I can see my own reflection on the whiteboard, clean and ready for a long day of teaching and learning. The bookshelf on the corner contains prearranged rows of Spanish books waiting to be read. My massive desk in the back of the classroom, reminds me what a waste of space it’s been, given that I never use it during class. I feel a sense of pride as I carefully examine the student work on the walls. The bell rings too quickly, before I know it, my students are at the door. I go through the day as if nothing is happening, pretending like I’m not hurting inside, knowing that this is the last time I will see my students.
“This weekend there is no homework.”
“Maestro, are you feeling well?” a student asks, knowing that no homework is not in my character.
I nod, not wanting to give anything away with the sound of my voice.
I wish I could tell them what is really going on. Tell them what an honor it has been to teach and see them flourish in so many ways. Tell them how proud I am of all their work and of how much they have grown. Thank them for everything they’ve taught me. Tell them that it is true that anything is possible when you set your mind to it. I wonder what they will think of me when I stop showing up, without a reason, without saying goodbye.
My heart skips a beat when I hear the last bell ring, signaling the end of the school day, screaming at me that my time is up. I walk to the H.R. manager’s office, convinced that this is the end, only to find that she’s already gone.
Determined to get it over with, I call her cellphone.
“What’s going on?”
“I need to speak with you about the letter you received.” My voice shakes as I begin to speak. “The number you have in my file is the number I gave you, there is no other number.” A long pause…
“You don’t need to tell me any more.”
My instinct is to say more, but my nerves don’t allow it. I did what I had to do, in reaction to the situation society has placed me in. This is the country that has seen me grow and learn, and I owe so much to this place. Teaching has been the most rewarding way of giving back.
These words did not find a way out.
“I need to check with our lawyers. Stay home on Monday, we’ll call you to follow up.”
I sit there, in silence, frozen in time. Everything I have worked, so hard to achieve, all my schooling, preparation, the countless hours spent grading, planning, and teaching; none of it matters at this point; nine numbers stand between me and my dreams.
God has a plan for all of us. I know that something better awaits me.
The high school campus is nearly empty, and the sun has long set, as I sit in the staff room planning the next day’s lesson. Suddenly an email from the Human Resources manager pops up on my screen: Julio, I have your W-2 in my office. Please come see me. My mind drowns among a million thoughts.
The following day goes by in slow motion. The anxiety builds up inside of me as the clock in my classroom ticks the seconds away. When the school day is over, I’m ready to face my truth. I slowly walk to her office, pause; take a deep breath.
“You wanted to see me?”
“We received this letter from the Social Security Administration,” she says, as she hands it to me, “I think we have your number wrong. Can you check your social security card and get back to me?”
I feel as if the room is shrinking, and I am trapped, with no way out. I battle the knot in my throat, force myself to smile and say, “Sure, I’ll check when I get home.”
When my mom comes home from work that night, she finds me working frantically on a substitute lesson plan. Her Clorox-stained clothes and the wrinkles on her hands caused by the house-cleaning chemicals remind me that I have a lot to be thankful for. I invite her into my room to give her the news.
“Mañana será mi último día.”
“How are you feeling, mijo?”
“Bien, mami. Everything’s going to be okay.” I try to sound as normal as possible. I don’t want her to see how much this hurts; I don’t want her to worry.
“God has a plan for all of us. He has something better planned for you.” Her words are comforting.
The following morning, I arrive on campus early. My classroom feels peaceful. I can see my own reflection on the whiteboard, clean and ready for a long day of teaching and learning. The bookshelf on the corner contains prearranged rows of Spanish books waiting to be read. My massive desk in the back of the classroom, reminds me what a waste of space it’s been, given that I never use it during class. I feel a sense of pride as I carefully examine the student work on the walls. The bell rings too quickly, before I know it, my students are at the door. I go through the day as if nothing is happening, pretending like I’m not hurting inside, knowing that this is the last time I will see my students.
“This weekend there is no homework.”
“Maestro, are you feeling well?” a student asks, knowing that no homework is not in my character.
I nod, not wanting to give anything away with the sound of my voice.
I wish I could tell them what is really going on. Tell them what an honor it has been to teach and see them flourish in so many ways. Tell them how proud I am of all their work and of how much they have grown. Thank them for everything they’ve taught me. Tell them that it is true that anything is possible when you set your mind to it. I wonder what they will think of me when I stop showing up, without a reason, without saying goodbye.
My heart skips a beat when I hear the last bell ring, signaling the end of the school day, screaming at me that my time is up. I walk to the H.R. manager’s office, convinced that this is the end, only to find that she’s already gone.
Determined to get it over with, I call her cellphone.
“What’s going on?”
“I need to speak with you about the letter you received.” My voice shakes as I begin to speak. “The number you have in my file is the number I gave you, there is no other number.” A long pause…
“You don’t need to tell me any more.”
My instinct is to say more, but my nerves don’t allow it. I did what I had to do, in reaction to the situation society has placed me in. This is the country that has seen me grow and learn, and I owe so much to this place. Teaching has been the most rewarding way of giving back.
These words did not find a way out.
“I need to check with our lawyers. Stay home on Monday, we’ll call you to follow up.”
I sit there, in silence, frozen in time. Everything I have worked, so hard to achieve, all my schooling, preparation, the countless hours spent grading, planning, and teaching; none of it matters at this point; nine numbers stand between me and my dreams.
God has a plan for all of us. I know that something better awaits me.
