Compassion

Early in the morning, I reached South High School and made my way up the stairs to the fifth-floor classroom where I taught most of my classes. The sunlight filtered through the dirty windows facing east, casting reflections on the worn-out desks. After hanging my jacket in the corner cabinet, I took a seat at the old teacher's desk to grade a pile of student assignments. At that moment, Maria walked in and quietly settled in at her desk near the row of windows. Having been absent for nearly a week, I greeted her warmly upon her return. Like me, Maria was an early bird, often working alongside me in the classroom before the chaos of the school day commenced, when 2,000 students flooded the hallways.

As I skimmed through student paragraphs, I made small corrections and penned encouraging notes here and there. Immersed in my task, it took a moment to register the sound of Maria's quiet crying. I paused my correcting, setting my pen down, to glance at her. She had her head resting on her folded arms, her face turned away from me. Not having a nurturing personality, I felt uncertain about how to approach this sensitive moment. I grabbed the tissue box from my desk, stood up from my chair, and approached her softly. After gently patting her back, I placed the tissues on her desk and settled into a nearby chair. With no words to offer, I sat there awkwardly, rubbing her back and gazing out the window at the morning sky.

Finally, Maria raised her head from the desk and faced me. I reassured her that she could share anything with me, then patiently waited for her to begin. I anticipated the typical complaints: my boyfriend ended our relationship, my best friend is upset with me, or my mom doesn’t get me. However, her tale was far from ordinary and rendered me at a loss for words.

In a soft voice, Maria revealed that she had gone back to Chiapas during the summer to visit family members. While there, she developed feelings for a family friend named Alejandro, and they got married before she came back to the United States. Their families assisted them in renting a small apartment in Omaha, where she and Alejandro had been residing for the last four months. One evening, ICE arrived at their home to detain Alejandro, who was in the process of being deported. Because Maria is only fourteen and their marriage wasn't recognized as valid in the U.S., she was put into foster care. The unexpected trauma of the situation led to her losing the baby she had carried for five months. Feeling utterly lost, she had no idea how to proceed. Recognizing that there was nothing I could do or say to alleviate her distress, we sat in silence together, watching dust particles aimlessly float in the beams of sunlight.

As the silence enveloped us, I took a deep breath, knowing that my role was not only to listen but to help guide her toward healing. "Maria," I finally said, my voice steady yet gentle, "I can't even imagine how much you are hurting. I don't have any answers right now, but I will do whatever it takes to help you figure this out"

She looked up at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, seeking solace in my words. "But I feel so alone," she whispered, her vulnerability washing over me like a chill.

"You’re not alone," I insisted, reaching out to take her hand in mine. "I may not have the perfect solution, but I want to help you. I have some wonderful friends in the counseling office who will know what to do. If you want, I will walk you down there and introduce you to them.

Maria nodded slowly, a glimmer of hope crossing her face. "Do you really think they can help?"

"Absolutely," I replied, feeling less confident than my voice sounded. "You deserve to feel supported and heard. We can also speak to your foster care worker and see if there’s a way to help you return to your mom and dad. You have rights, and your story matters."

With each word, I watched her tension start to ease, even if just a little. The sunlight in the classroom transformed into a warm embrace, wrapping around us like a protective shield.

"Thank you," Maria said softly, her voice now tinged with uncertainty but also a flicker of resilience. "I knew you would help me."

And in that moment, I realized maybe I was more nurturing than I had thought. That day, I proved I wasn't just a teacher; I was also an ally.

As the school day loomed ahead, I walked her down the stairs and into the counseling center. Together, we would uncover the resources available to her, navigate the overwhelming system, and help her find her voice in a world that seemed intent on silencing it.  I introduced her to my friend Micaela, ensuring that she would receive the support she needed. After gathering my strength, I made my way back up the stairs to rejoin my other students.

Reentering my classroom, I felt a renewed sense of resolve, prepared to face the obstacles before me. My encounter with Maria had shifted my role from being just a teacher to a dedicated advocate. As my students entered, I greeted them with a fresh sense of purpose. I looked around at the individuals chatting and preparing for the lesson, and noticed the dust swirling miraculously in the sunlight, reflecting the light of new opportunities awaiting us.