this life

I have been changed by teaching in an urban school. I realize lately that I am probably a sadder person than I used to be, but I also know that I am less restless. I am more tired. I am more grateful. I am probably harder on my own children.

At the end of the day, I believe that I have been given more than I give.

I spent the good part of this afternoon in the emergency room of the children's hospital, because Lily was very sick and dehydrated and her doctor thought she might have appendicitis. While we were in the waiting room, paramedics brought in a young teenage boy on a stretcher. He was African American, and his head was wrapped in white gauze. The seated him, alone, in the waiting room, no mother or father to hold his hand. I told him he was brave, asked if he needed to use a cell phone. He had been hurt at school, and I asked him what his favorite subject is (social studies), and inquired whether or not he'd gotten to ride in the ambulance with lights and siren on (he hadn't). I told him that my one trip in an ambulance had been siren-less and light-less too, and that it was a huge dissapointment.

He smiled.

In the exam room next to us, seperated by a thin curtain, was a single mother with her toddler daughter. I don't know what was wrong with the child; she was on oxygen. A group of doctors came in to speak to her, but the mother only spoke broken English. Univision played in the background. One doctor tried halfheartedly to translate. Donde infirmas? She was trying to ask when the child had become ill. Another doctor said he thought it was cuando, not donde. I heard them tell the mother that the child should not get food or drink until a cardiologist evaluated her. No comida, a nurse said.

They left and I was angry. I was angry because the big fancy top-rated children's hospital should have a competent Spanish translator. I wanted to peek through the curtain and explain that a cardiologist is un doctor para el corazon. I thought that my students would not know what a "cardiologist" is.

I do not think I would have seen these people as I was six years ago, safely sheltered in my white middle-class neighborhood, school, church, grocery store, library, Target, mall, Pizza Hut, park, post office. Perhaps I would have wondered what crime the boy had committed, or been annoyed by the Univision-watching mother (our cubicle's television was broken) who probably did not have insurance.

I would not have worried about them. I would not have felt sad.

But at the same time, two of the technicians that assisted us: the x-ray tech and the customer service rep that took my insurance card, graduated from the high school where I teach. When they found out where I'm from, in a moment, I became not-patient, not-number, not-white - I became a member of their community.

And, in the end, this is what I have recieved: Community. It's not always pretty or uplifting or encouraging. But here it is, and here I am.