A National Emergency

A national emergency is a series of hurricanes on one coast and as many fires on the other coast, the direct results of climate change that our country chooses to ignore. A national emergency is the healthcare crisis, where we can’t get prosthetics if we’re missing a limb or pay for cancer treatment even if we’re dying. A national emergency is CEO pay which has multiplied exponentially for five decades and left the common worker with a salary too low to buy a house, buy eggs, or pay rent.

There is no national emergency at our border. There are millions of people, despite all of our national emergencies, who have faced far worse: farms that can no longer grow coffee due to climate change, dictatorships that have taken away all rights, medical care that includes fewer options for cerebral palsy or cancer than we have here.

Their emergencies trail behind them, left in their home countries weeks, months, or years ago, and like that train that they cling to carrying them across Mexico, they hope never to see again.

They are here now, families in tow, babies in tow, ready to work, ready to enroll their children in school and provide jobs for teachers like me, ready to take into their hands the American Dream that you have declared doesn’t exist for them.

They are not criminals.

They are not illegal.

They are not a national emergency, an executive order you’ve used to circumvent Congress on your first day in office.

They pick your food and clear your sidewalks after snow and build your roofs and work in your restaurants and run your factories and teach your children and make you rich. They are professors and lawyers and engineers and mechanics and everything in between.

They are human.

And after more than four hundred years of forced colonization and enslaved labor indoctrinated in our blood by imperialists like you, the only national emergency is how far back we’ve moved the dial of progress, and for how long we will make Suffering the motto of YOUR AMERICA.

Seventeen

I’m already starting to count semesters left, though I have nearly a decade to win my pension. I have seventeen left. Seventeen semesters to deal with the pain, the argument, the love/hate relationship I have with this career, and today it hurts me more than it helps me.

Why is he in the hallway now, laughing his ass off and GOOFING OFF WITH HIS FRIENDS? Why do I hear his voice, after he cheated on her, after he convinced her back, after she came in distraught with handmarks on her arm, her breakfast tossed to the floor, his controlling words still ringing in her ears? Why did I call the dean, the assistant principal, who came jogging to my classroom to extricate her, to hear her story, ONLY TO HEAR HIS VOICE IN THE HALLWAY three hours later? Why wasn’t he sent home, after the long list of inappropriate behavior, everything from intentionally using racial slurs to skipping class to cussing out the admin to refusing to do work to taking advantage of a girl in the bathroom and allowing his friend to film it and post it online…

Seventeen semesters left of arguing with kids about their phones, convincing them that English is important, and telling those in charge to do something about kids who should be nowhere near this school.

And sometimes it feels like seventeen lifetimes.

Work

i'm back at work today
after a solid two weeks
of rest and relaxation

in which i found this schedule
from my first job
age seventeen
(started there at sixteen)

where i'm scheduled for all but four days
of July of '95
and i've never stopped since.
really stopped.

even when i was
home with the babies
i watched other people's babies

and the two weeks
thirty years past due
just seems
so
short