Santiago's Road Home

by Alexandra Diaz

  Only the two days of school change the monotony. Even within the same day, no two sessions are exactly the same, and they’re always interesting.

  “Today, we’re going to work on our writing,” Señor Dante says as he passes out paper and pencils.

  Santiago sits up and ignores the surrounding moans.

  “Why is writing important when there’s so much technology out there that can do it for us?” Señor Dante asks.

  “Because you can’t always depend on technology,” says a Guatemalan nicknamed Listo for his tendency to answer the teacher’s questions first.

  Señor Dante nods. “Exactly. Technology fails all the time. Computers crash; phones run out of battery.”

  “Not everyone has phones or computers,” another boy says.

  “Like us.” The comment is met with groans.

  Señor Dante persists. “Why else?”

  “ ’Cause if you never write to your abuelita, she’ll never send you money for your birthday.”

  The class laughs and many agree.

  “Very true.” The corner of Señor Dante’s eyes crinkle in a grin. “My mami doesn’t know how to turn on a computer and only has a house phone. My abuelito in Honduras doesn’t have any of those. ¿Qué más?”

  “It’s a way to express yourself,” Santiago says to himself. Except he says it out loud.

  Señor Dante pounces on his words as he points at him eagerly. “Expand.”

  “I don’t know.” He thinks about it for a second. “When you write, you put something of yourself onto the paper. A person can tell if you’re sad or insecure based on how you’ve written something.”

  “Perfect, I love it.”

  “Also,” Listo interrupts. Teacher’s pet. “Writing by hand makes it easier to work nonlinearly.”

  Señor Dante prances from one side of the room to the other, barely able to contain his excitement. “Tell us what that means.”

  Listo straightens up in his chair.

  “Kiss-up,” Chismoso mutters.

  “Well, like, on a piece of paper, you don’t have to write in straight lines.” Listo shows off. “You can write something in the middle, then something different at an angle near a corner. You can turn the page upside down and write something that way.”

  “Wonderful!” Señor Dante claps. “And I want to encourage you to try and think nonlinearly. ‘Think outside the box,’ como dicen en inglés. Not everything has to be methodical. Writing is an art, and through this art you’re expressing yourself and not depending on a machine.”

  “So we can write whatever?” Chismoso raises his eyebrows, checking to see how much he can get away with. “¿Pero en inglés o en español?”

  “Español.” Señor Dante takes a quick inventory of the class. Everyone present speaks Spanish. “The topic is: If you could do anything, what would you do? If you could be anyone, who would you be? Be as realistic or imaginative as you like. If you’re attending college, tell me what you’re studying. If instead you’re sprouting wings and flying yourself into outer space, I want to know. Write ideas and dreams, or fully thought-out plans. Don’t worry about lines, spelling, or presentation. Just write from the heart. And go!”

  The blank page in front of Santiago blinds him. His writing has certainly improved. Not perfect, but competent enough. Normally he likes Señor Dante’s nonstructured assignments, but thinking about what if? The future? Even an imaginary one would be devastating when it didn’t come true.

  He thought he could have a better life by coming to the U.S., assumed he’d live with María Dolores and Alegría together as a family. Stupid. Then there were all those forms for foster care, helping the guards, all in hopes of getting out of here. All for nothing.

  His future will be fairly simple: stay here until he turns eighteen and then work the streets back in México, begging for food and scrounging through dumpsters for anything he can find. Returning to work for Don José would only remind him of everything he wants to forget.

  There’s no future for him. He’ll do nothing, be no one; no point in writing that down.

  His compañeros aren’t as realistic. A few boys share what they wrote with the class: get a job, get married, build a house. Others present their scribbles of random notes: learn to drive, meet a famous person, drive a sports car with the famous person as a passenger. Pathetic.

  He crumples the paper into a tight ball. Except Señor Dante catches him. Disappointment shadows the teacher’s face. Maybe he should have written something outlandish just to fill the page: owning a pet unicorn—no, no unicorns. That creature will forever remind him of Alegría and her drawing he shouldn’t have thrown away. He can’t think of what he’s lost any more than he can think of what he can never have.

  Castillo opens the classroom door. No lingering today, Santiago has to get out.

  “Please stay,” Señor Dante says to him.

  Santiago glances over at Castillo, who waves him the okay. Herrera would have screamed at Santiago to get his lazy butt out of there. If only the mean guard were on duty this time.

  He could leave anyway, but the teacher did say please. His eyes focusing on the table, Santiago sits back down on the folding chair. Señor Dante perches on the table in front of him.

  “I saw your empty page. What’s going on?”

  Santiago shrugs, still staring at the table. “I didn’t have anything to write.”

  “I don’t believe that. I’ve seen how creative you are. C’mon, talk to me,” the teacher insists.

  Santiago plays with the hem of his sweatshirt, folding his hands over and under until they disappear. But the words linger in the air. “There’s no point thinking about what I want to do when there’s nothing to look forward to.”

  Señor Dante sighs. “I get it. You’re locked in a facility even though you’ve done nothing wrong except want a better life, and you don’t know when you’re getting out.”

  Yeah, he gets it. Still not looking at him, Santiago adds, “And no one has any control over what happens in the future.”

  “Maybe not total control. But you can work for what you want, what you believe in. You can control how you respond to what comes your way.”

  No, he can’t. Because he won’t be able to change anything. Just like he won’t be able to control what this government finally decides to do with him at eighteen. They’ll make the decision, and no action from him will change that.

  “Okay, let me ask you a different question.” Señor Dante’s voice softens, as if he understands Santiago’s thoughts. “If you could have any job in the world, what job would that be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The teacher crosses his arms over his chest and waits.

  Santiago hugs his knees and rests his head on top of his legs. Any job in the world? He’s never thought about it. His family worked whatever jobs brought in money for food, no matter how horrible. Mami did… no, he can’t remember. Had things worked out with María Dolores, he could have worked in her sister’s restaurant, like he did months ago in Capaz. But he wouldn’t want to do that for the rest of his life. But what else? What is he good at? What would he want to do instead?

  “I guess I wouldn’t mind being a teacher. Like you. But for little kids. Four, five, and six are good ages.” The words surprise him. Then don’t. A part of him already knew.

  “Why are those good ages?”

  “They’re young enough to still believe in unicorns.”

  Santiago looks up from his knees to catch Señor Dante blinking a few times behind his glasses. “I think you’re going to be a great teacher.”

  Except Señor Dante is the first person in Santiago’s life who’s encouraged his education. Before coming here, no one cared to show him how to read or write. “Once back in México, no one’s going to pay for me to continue going to school.”

  “So pay for it yourself.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Then earn it. Do whatever it takes to accomplish
your goals,” Señor Dante insists.

  Yeah, that sounds good in theory, but in practice? “¿Y si no puedo?”

  “No one succeeds by giving up.”

  Santiago glances through the open door into the main room, where kids are lining up for lunch. Castillo forgot about him. Or maybe trusts him. If his stomach weren’t starting to growl, he could get away with staying in the classroom with Señor Dante all through lunch.

  “Please think about it.” Señor Dante holds out his hand.

  Santiago accepts the shake. Maybe he can be a teacher. He’d be good at it too. And it’s something he would enjoy. Better than washing dishes. Better than anything else he can think of. “Okay, I will.”

  * * *

  A few weeks later Patterson holds the door open to urge the boys out of the classroom. Señor Dante speaks to the guard quietly in English. Patterson narrows his eyes then agrees. “Five minutes.”

  The guard leans against the jamb, looking bored, while Señor Dante turns to Santiago. “The government is restricting funding for these centers, saying that education is a luxury they can no longer afford.”

  “So, you’re saying…” Santiago speaks slowly, desperate not to let resentment seep into his words. “You won’t be our teacher anymore?”

  Señor Dante shakes his head, breathing in sharply as if there are many opinions (and bad words) he wants to say, but doesn’t. “This is my last week teaching.”

  So this is it. Santiago turns to leave, but Señor Dante grabs his arm. The teacher retracts his grip before Patterson notices. Santiago stops, unable to look him in the eye. At least the teacher is saying good-bye.

  “The government won’t pay for education anymore, but I believe in delivering bad news first,” Señor Dante says.

  Santiago lifts his head. Does this mean there’s good news? How can anything be good after this?

  “I’m working with a nonprofit literacy organization.” Señor Dante straightens his round glasses and stares at him. “The center granted me permission to start a story time for the younger boys, reading to them for about a half hour twice a week.”

  Santiago crosses his arms over his chest. Not what he would call good news. Not for him at least. “The little kids are lucky to have you.”

  “I know you’ve had many disappointments in your life, but you have to accept the possibility of good things too.” Señor Dante perches against a table with his own arms crossed. “Why do you think I’ve mentioned this to you?”

  How should he know? He doesn’t care about a reading program for the little kids. He can’t join them. Unless…

  “You want me to read to them? Read them stories?” he gasps.

  Patterson shifts from his spot by the door, and Señor Dante quickly holds up two fingers.

  “A couple more minutes. Please,” the teacher says in English to the guard before returning his attention to Santiago. “I’ve been approved to have a teen helper, and I think you’d be great for the job.”

  Him, Santiago. A future teacher. Doing something he’s always loved. Except now he would be reading the stories, instead of just telling them.

  “¿En español?”

  “Claro.”

  Santiago blinks. Excitement—and panic—courses through his body. Señor Dante is serious. He actually wants Santiago to read to the little kids. Santiago will get to go to a different part of the facility. Be someplace new.

  “Are the girls getting story time too?” If there’s any chance the girl who knew Alegría is still there…

  Sadness clouds Señor Dante’s eyes. “I’ve only been approved to read to the boys.”

  Just as well. She is probably long gone. Like everyone else.

  “You think I can read well enough?”

  Señor Dante turns the question around. “Do you think you can read well enough?”

  “Maybe?” And because Señor Dante seems to expect a different answer, Santiago corrects himself. “Yes, creo que sí.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Not even two minutes pass after leaving the classroom and joining the lunch line before Listo, the smarty-pants boy, steps up behind Santiago and nudges him in the back of the legs. “I heard from Chismoso that you’re joining Señor D. on a field trip to the little-kid section.”

  Santiago turns slightly from the single-file line and shrugs, neither confirming nor denying.

  “Why do you get to go and not the rest of us?”

  “He knows I have experience with kids,” Santiago answers as simply as possible.

  “You? You never speak to anyone. Most people here don’t even know who you are, and you’ve been here forever.”

  Santiago keeps his eyes forward and shrugs again.

  “I have seven hermanos.” Listo leans in like a pesky fly to his ear. “I know kids. How many siblings do you have?”

  The lunch line starts moving. Listo knocks into his legs again. Santiago stumbles and crashes into the guy in front of him. Gathering his feet under him, Santiago whips around to face Listo.

  “Stop. It,” Santiago hisses. He narrows his eyes for a second, staring Listo down, then hurries to catch up with the line. The guy in front of him glances over his shoulder as Santiago approaches.

  “Sorry, man,” Santiago apologizes. “I didn’t mean to crash into you.”

  “ ’Tá bien,” the guy mumbles. He’s new, probably about sixteen, and already dubbed Sumo for being built like a wrestler.

  “You’re not getting away with this,” Listo insists as he cuts in front of Santiago. “I’m seeing Señor D. after lunch.”

  “Go ahead,” Santiago says. If Listo wants to cut in line, fine. At lunchtime they always get sandwiches in various degrees of staleness or sogginess. Let Listo get a bad sandwich first.

  But take the reading program away from him? Not without a fight.

  Santiago inhales his sandwich without knowing what’s in it and is first to form the exit line. No helping Consuelo today. From the corner of his eye, he sees Listo chug his juice, but not before Sumo joins Santiago in line. Santiago smiles. It’s one thing for Listo to cut in front of Santiago—but he won’t dare do it to Sumo.

  “You don’t like sandwiches?” Santiago asks the big guy. “At least today’s aren’t moldy.”

  Sumo shakes his head as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “I have a severe wheat allergy.”

  Poor guy. Santiago’s own gut handles just about anything, whether it resembles food or not; he never thought about those who can’t handle actual food. “That’s tough. Did you mention anything when you got brought in?”

  Sumo pats his belly. “Yeah, but I think they think I’m faking it.”

  In other words, the officials who run the facility don’t care. As far as they are concerned, providing any food serves their humanitarian requirements.

  And there’s nothing Santiago can do to change that. But maybe he can give Sumo something to look forward to. Most of the sandwiches are gone, which means they won’t be served again for dinner.

  “Hey, Chismoso,” Santiago calls out. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Arroz con pollo,” Chismoso answers without demanding payment. It must be public information by now. Another reason most of the lunch sandwiches are gone.

  “I like arroz con pollo.” Sumo smiles.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Santiago warns. “Even I think it’s pretty bad. But at least it doesn’t have wheat, and there’s usually plenty.”

  “Thanks.”

  After inspection, Santiago follows Herrera down the hall. Once back in the main area, he dashes to the door of the classroom. The government hasn’t dismissed their teacher yet.

  “Walk, García!” Herrera shouts.

  “Señor Dante,” Santiago blurts. “I really, really want to read to the little kids. Please don’t take it away from me.”

  “It’s your job.” Señor Dante looks up from what might be his final lesson plan. “Why would I—”

  Listo appears in the classroom do
orway slightly out of breath. “Señor, I’m much more qualified for the reading program. Santi is illiterate.”

  “Santiago,” Señor Dante corrects, “has come a long way. I have never seen that drive for learning.”

  “But you didn’t even give me a chance. No es justo.”

  Señor Dante steps out from behind his desk and sits on one of the long tables with his arms crossed. “Why do you want to do it?”

  “I learned how to read when I was four,” Listo brags. “I’ve won many academic awards in my school, and I’ve scored higher in tests than people two or three years older than me.”

  Señor Dante nods and turns to Santiago. Nerves tap-dance on Santiago’s stomach. He can’t compete with any of that. When he reads, he still has to sound out many words. But Señor Dante said a person needs to do whatever it takes to achieve what they want. And Santiago wants this. He would be good at it too.

  Deep breath.

  “I grew up hearing stories from my mamá.” Santiago starts softly and then speaks up as his confidence builds. “Later, I told stories to my cousins, and finally to my… my little sister. Stories transport me and listeners to different worlds. For a few minutes, we forget we’re stuck in an immigration holding center and remember what it’s like to be free and belong somewhere.”

  A hand claps onto Santiago’s shoulder. He yelps as he cowers. Turning, he sees Sumo behind him. No guard tells Sumo off for touching, and his hand feels nice and supportive, now that Santiago knows whose it is. Other boys filter into the classroom, attracted by the crowd.

  Santiago smiles his thanks.

  “I’m sorry.” Señor Dante glances back at Listo. “Santiago is still the right person for the job.”

  Sumo’s cheers and Listo’s complaints bring Herrera over to investigate the commotion. Sumo drops his supportive hand from Santiago’s shoulder without being told.