I’m 58, I should have known better than to make a sharp cut on the blacktop while eluding a ten-year-old during a game of tag. I lose my footing and hit the ground. The scrapes are surface level but there’s blood coming from my knee and hand.
The Kupanda kids rush to me. “Mr. Francois, Mr. Francois, are you okay?”
The kids range in ages from 5 to 15, in language skills from bilingual to novice English speaker, and in birthplaces from San Diego to refugee camps in Tanzania. All are from families who have come to this country in search of opportunity and safety. I hang out with them on Fridays when I can. We do academic worksheets then head out to play. The kids are at once boisterous, shy, playful, whiny, and smiling. They support one another while also fighting like siblings – which in many cases they are.
The kids follow me into the rec center where I grab some paper towels and ask one of the employees for a couple of Band Aids. They continue to ask if I’m okay and seem not to believe it when I say I’m fine. We head into the academic space where some of the other kids have retrieved Kupanda’s first aid kit. There’s a frenzy as they pull items out of the container. They want to apply ointments, wipe off all traces of blood, and dress the wound. I tell them we don’t need all that, but they ignore me. “We care about you,” someone says and a chorus agrees.
I stop protesting and stand still as several of the younger kids drop to the floor and attend to my knee. Then one of the older girls, maybe twelve, hands me a red piece of paper, business card size. It’s from her school and printed on both sides are instructions on how to deal with an ICE agent. It lets the students know what to say or not say and advises them on their rights. I look at her and she shrugs. “I have more,” she says. I guess it a safe card for these times.
I look down and one of the younger boys, maybe six, is swabbing the drying blood outside of the Band Aid with a Q-Tip.
My heart tears in several places.
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