Monday, May 11, 2015

The Table

We went to Juan and Anna’s wedding—actually, vow renewal (which I consistently pronounce “vowel renewal”)—two weeks ago.

Many things happened that made me so happy, I’m still giggling. Here’s one: the bridal party collected in the nave just before the start of the ceremony. The officiant’s wife breezed through and reminded us all to spit out our gum. Juan swallowed his. Theresa glared at him and said, “That’s so unhealthy!” and then she glared at me and said, “Do something with your son!” I smiled and said, “Can’t. I just swallowed my gum.”

And then, the matron of honor struck a pose and declared, “I’m walking down the aisle like a diva!” Juan’s brother Mario replied, “I’m walking down the aisle like a gansta.” And I muttered, “I’m walking down the aisle like a middle-aged lady.”

Folks in the back of the church heard our laughter.

It was a fine day.

Nonetheless, Matt and I were ridiculously out of place. With about forty people in attendance, he and I were two of seven white peeps. Everyone else was Latino.

And while this is sweet and good, we felt out of place sometimes.
  
The reception was held at Olive Garden. We arrived to find one long table set for about thirty people. Another was set for ten, and it was to this smaller table that parents shooed their kids.

At the big table, folks started to sit down, with lots of jockeying taking place. I could practically hear the thoughts … Where will Juan and Anna sit? I want to be with my boyfriend. No way am I sitting with them.

Matt and I were the them.

It became clear that we would either be sitting far apart, next to people pointedly turned away from us, or together at the kids’ table.

To the kids’ table we went. And had a blast. Matt played his version of, “Question, please” for well over an hour. The game goes like this: Matt says, “Question, please. Superman, Spiderman, or Batman?” And then we all start to roar out our responses, vehemently arguing why Batman is cooler (because he has no special skills, but he does have a butler) and Superman is inferior (the kryptonite issue can’t be overlooked). Even the littlest girls jumped in, with their important issues: “Juice or milk?” and “Ocean or swimming pool?” and “Summer or winter?”

On the way home, I babbled at Matt a lot about the day—the perfect weather, the crying babies, the dresses, the flowers—and I wondered aloud about the culture issue. “Did you feel weird?” I wanted to know.

Yeah, he confessed. He felt weird, too.

I remembered an incident in my classroom with a student named Miguel.

I was teaching in Los Angeles. All but two of my students were Latino. Most of them spoke English well, but did not have a handle on academic English—which was a booger for standardized tests and college prep.

One day, the kids decided they wanted to throw a party for a boy I’ll call Lance. Lance had been away for several months because he pummeled a younger boy’s face and then stole his bicycle. Lance was arrested and spent most of the school year in juvenile detention (and, I’ll be honest, I had very mixed feelings about that).

Lance finished his term and returned to school. To celebrate, the junior class collected money for a pizza party that they decided to host in my classroom. On the day of the party, the more organized students functioned as bouncers, letting in the kids who had paid, and turning away those who hadn’t.

The party got into full swing, which meant that everyone sat on tables, kicking their legs to music blaring out of my laptop, chattering nonsensically above the din. They nibbled at their pizza and cookies, many of them making little to-go plates to take home and savor later or give to their younger siblings. 

Eventually, a handful of boys who had not paid crashed in. I escorted them right back out, and returned to my class to turn down the music, stack empty pizza boxes, and glance often at the clock to make sure I wasn’t late to pick up Matt. The kids had busses and trains to catch, and all wound down according to schedule.

Our school’s security staffer sauntered into my room as the last couple of students helped me clean up. “Ms. Forbes? I need to speak with you …” he said. Uh-oh, I thought. This can’t be good.

Seemed one of my party crashers let out a stream of explicatives aimed at me and my general wellness that the security guy overhead. He collared "Miguel" and escorted him down to the principal’s office and then returned upstairs to speak with me. “I’ve had enough of this kid breaking the rules,” he said. “It’s time we expelled him.

Oh, jeez. No pressure there.

A few minutes later, my boss called me to her office. She wanted the whole story. There wasn’t much to tell, other than this: I was so upset, I felt sick. I liked Miguel, but it’s true we hadn’t connected much. He sat between two studious kids in my fourth period class and mostly smirked at the antics of the class clown at a table not far away. Miguel was always respectful and polite, but his low attendance translated to a lot of blanks in my grade book.

I also knew this about Miguel: he had a gang affiliation. And when my colleagues and I conducted a parent/teacher conference with his mom, she showed up glassy-eyed and smelling of booze.

All of this swirled in my head as I sat across from Sherre in her office. I told her what happened, including our security guy’s comments. I told her about my relationship with Miguel. I told her I felt awful.

She asked, “What should we do?”

I wailed, “I don’t know! Part of me wants to run—some days, these kids scare me half to death—and part of me wants to smack him upside the head. Who does he think he is swearing at me? I work my tail off for these kids! What the heck was he thinking?”

I took several deep breaths. And then I said this. “You know, Sherre? We spend a lot of time teaching our kids that they have place at the table, that the things this world has to offer are theirs, too. But today? I told Miguel the opposite. When I made him leave my class for a party he probably couldn’t afford to attend, I told him he does not have a place at the table.”

I swatted at the tears on my face and said, “Dammit. I hate this job.” Sherre laughed.

A few minutes later, I walked into my principal’s office. Miguel was sitting at the conference table, his head between his hands and a blank piece of paper on the table in front of him. I sat down and took his hands in mine. “Miguel,” I said, “I am not mad at you.”

He looked up at me, all the sadness of the world pooling in his dark eyes, and said, “Miss, I’m not mad at you, either.”

A few days later, he gave me a letter of apology. A few months later, he graduated.

And walked right off the pages of my life. I don’t know where he is or what he’s up to. I have to let go of my fears and trust he’s okay. Or will be.

---

If Jesus taught us anything, it is this: no one is out. Everyone is in. There’s always room.

There’s a seat for Juan and Anna and all their friends, including a couple of middle-aged white people. There’s a seat for Miguel at his table, and Sherre, too. There’s a seat for Lance. And there’s a seat for me.

I might have to scoot down a bit to make more room or sit next to people who make me feel uncomfortable.

But I have a place, a bona fide place, at a table big enough to hold me and all the people I love and all the people I don’t love, too.

Of all the things I know about Jesus, I just might like this one the very best.

So, question please: arms open, or arms closed? Hold tight to only my people, or scoot down to make room for another? Turn in, or turn away?

Jesus’s ideas about his table make me uncomfortable sometimes. It’s not the plan I would have come up with. In fact, I don’t think it’s the plan any of us would have come up with.

But oh, dear heaven. It’s so good and lovely and true, it makes me think maybe … just maybe … some day, we will all get it right.



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