A conversation I had yesterday afternoon with one of my favorite third grade girls:
P: “Ms. Z., my mom had to leave early this morning to take care of my grandma. She sick.”
Ms. Z: “Aw, I’m sorry to hear that, sweetie…if it your mom’s mom or your dad’s mom?”
P: “My dad’s mom. But he can’t take care of her, ya know, ‘cause he’s in Tijuana.”
Ms. Z: “Is he coming back?”
She shakes her head. P: “No, he needs papers.”
Ms. Z: “Can you go visit him?” She nods. “Can your mom go?”
P: “No, she needs papers, and so does my grandma.”
A few moments later:
Ms. Z: “Did you know I went to Tijuana last weekend?”
P: “No! Really?”
Ms. Z: “Yeah! I bet you didn’t even notice I left early on Friday.” P laughs.
P: “Well if you see my dad tell him you’re Ms. Z and you’re from Urban Compass and tell him I love him soooo much and that his family misses him.”
Ms. Z: “I was there last weekend, P, and I don’t think I’m going back anytime soon. Plus, it’s a huge huge huge city with lots of people.”
P: “Really? Is there lots of dirt there? I picture it with lots of dirt.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have pried for info about her family. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her I went to Tijuana. But I knew a little about her family – her dad was in jail and upon his release was deported. I kept thinking about the men I met at Casa del Migrante, and how so many of them probably had kids just like P, families just like P’s. And I had the privilege of being able to cross the border for a quick weekend trip, all with the flash of a little blue booklet.
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