My Kids
Three years ago my dad accepted the position as director of the local migrant education program. I was in my second year of Spanish at high school and was very excited to volunteer. I was pretty sure I wanted a job working with bilingual students, and I figured this would be the best opportunity to test that out. Needless to say I came to work the first morning disillusioned of what it would be like. I thought my Spanish abilities would allow me to converse like a native and the children would all sit smiling and obeying my every command. It was quite a shock, then, to walk into the gym that first morning to find all ages of kids running around speaking Spanish, English, and most often a mix of both. I quickly learned that my book Spanish wasn’t going to be much help, and nearly went loca as I tried to keep small boys from escaping on their tricycles. Working at the migrant program was much more than I expected, but I love working there.
This summer was the first year I got paid for the hours I spent working at the program. I was hired as a general aide which meant I spent the majority of my time in the baby room. The baby room overflows with cribs, toys, mats, towels, and babies all under the age of two. Every morning I’d be to work by 7:00 a.m. to put on a flowered smock and wait for the buses to arrive. Once the yellow school bus pulled up into the school driveway the morning flew by. I gently laid sleeping babies into our two double-seat strollers and slung diaper bags over my shoulders. Sometimes I’d walk Adrian down to the baby room, his pants soaked from the long, early-morning bus ride. Back in the gym, I supervised the groups of boys playing basketball and the toddlers on the tricycles. When the food van pulled up I would immediately start strapping my babies into their high chairs. Once in, I’d pass out bibs and then start getting trays. Of course, I had to make sure Princesa didn’t eat pineapple, Yolanda only drank rice milk, and Angel did not spill his milk down his shirt. After everyone had a tray I’d feed multiple babies at a time, trying to remember what Styrofoam cup of milk belonged to which child. I spent the rest of the day feeding babies, changing diapers, holding hands, and occasionally teaching math and reading lessons for Miss Connie. My favorite part of the day was rocking my kids to sleep. Many afternoons my eyes would close as I rocked back and forth with the warm breath of a sleeping baby on my arm.
The students at the migrant program are stuck between wanting to be kids and being the parent while their parents work in the fields. In the mornings before school I chat with the fifth and sixth grade girls who love to talk about their clothes, Akon, and boys. Jarxya told me how she had two boyfriends, one in Texas and one in Washington, that way she had a boyfriend no matter where she lived. However, unlike my 12 year olds, these kids undertake the great responsibility of caring for their younger siblings. Olivia gets her one-year old sister Princesa and her two cousins Andy and Angel ready for school each morning because her parents have been working in the beet fields since 4:00 a.m. Fabian, who was only seven, often came to school late because he had to change his two-year olds cousins diaper and dress her for school. The family bonds between these children is so tight; the first day of school the babies and older students cry when they go to their separate classrooms. Older siblings are very protective of their younger brothers and sisters and are very nervous to leave them with us at first. They are often grateful to have the chance to play, but look over their shoulders guiltily as they go to play. They don’t want to be parents, but are still unsure of giving up their position as caretaker.
There is just so much I can say about the migrant program. I can’t quite explain the joy in my heart when Angel comes running into my arms whenever I say Abrazame (hug me in Spanish). I celebrated my sixteenth birthday which five-year olds singing “Happy Birthday” in broken English and cried watching a third-grader struggle to recognize the letter “w.” My time with the migrant program has been the most influential in deciding my future career and has affected my life in so many ways. Each year I cry as I hug my kids good-bye because I know that I might never see them again. But each year brings new faces and new memories, and I can’t help but come back because I love my kids.
Three years ago my dad accepted the position as director of the local migrant education program. I was in my second year of Spanish at high school and was very excited to volunteer. I was pretty sure I wanted a job working with bilingual students, and I figured this would be the best opportunity to test that out. Needless to say I came to work the first morning disillusioned of what it would be like. I thought my Spanish abilities would allow me to converse like a native and the children would all sit smiling and obeying my every command. It was quite a shock, then, to walk into the gym that first morning to find all ages of kids running around speaking Spanish, English, and most often a mix of both. I quickly learned that my book Spanish wasn’t going to be much help, and nearly went loca as I tried to keep small boys from escaping on their tricycles. Working at the migrant program was much more than I expected, but I love working there.
This summer was the first year I got paid for the hours I spent working at the program. I was hired as a general aide which meant I spent the majority of my time in the baby room. The baby room overflows with cribs, toys, mats, towels, and babies all under the age of two. Every morning I’d be to work by 7:00 a.m. to put on a flowered smock and wait for the buses to arrive. Once the yellow school bus pulled up into the school driveway the morning flew by. I gently laid sleeping babies into our two double-seat strollers and slung diaper bags over my shoulders. Sometimes I’d walk Adrian down to the baby room, his pants soaked from the long, early-morning bus ride. Back in the gym, I supervised the groups of boys playing basketball and the toddlers on the tricycles. When the food van pulled up I would immediately start strapping my babies into their high chairs. Once in, I’d pass out bibs and then start getting trays. Of course, I had to make sure Princesa didn’t eat pineapple, Yolanda only drank rice milk, and Angel did not spill his milk down his shirt. After everyone had a tray I’d feed multiple babies at a time, trying to remember what Styrofoam cup of milk belonged to which child. I spent the rest of the day feeding babies, changing diapers, holding hands, and occasionally teaching math and reading lessons for Miss Connie. My favorite part of the day was rocking my kids to sleep. Many afternoons my eyes would close as I rocked back and forth with the warm breath of a sleeping baby on my arm.
The students at the migrant program are stuck between wanting to be kids and being the parent while their parents work in the fields. In the mornings before school I chat with the fifth and sixth grade girls who love to talk about their clothes, Akon, and boys. Jarxya told me how she had two boyfriends, one in Texas and one in Washington, that way she had a boyfriend no matter where she lived. However, unlike my 12 year olds, these kids undertake the great responsibility of caring for their younger siblings. Olivia gets her one-year old sister Princesa and her two cousins Andy and Angel ready for school each morning because her parents have been working in the beet fields since 4:00 a.m. Fabian, who was only seven, often came to school late because he had to change his two-year olds cousins diaper and dress her for school. The family bonds between these children is so tight; the first day of school the babies and older students cry when they go to their separate classrooms. Older siblings are very protective of their younger brothers and sisters and are very nervous to leave them with us at first. They are often grateful to have the chance to play, but look over their shoulders guiltily as they go to play. They don’t want to be parents, but are still unsure of giving up their position as caretaker.
There is just so much I can say about the migrant program. I can’t quite explain the joy in my heart when Angel comes running into my arms whenever I say Abrazame (hug me in Spanish). I celebrated my sixteenth birthday which five-year olds singing “Happy Birthday” in broken English and cried watching a third-grader struggle to recognize the letter “w.” My time with the migrant program has been the most influential in deciding my future career and has affected my life in so many ways. Each year I cry as I hug my kids good-bye because I know that I might never see them again. But each year brings new faces and new memories, and I can’t help but come back because I love my kids.
posted by Bridget Farr @ 8:09 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home