Did we dance in the streets and celebrate, last night? No. For the three out of six young people who’ve made it through the hurdles thus far, the evening was filled with questions, revelations, and more questions yet. Same for those who’ve chosen to stand by them (and by the others in this town who may or may not find secure footing in this country).
Barring an appeal (with new evidence) by the prosecution within the next two months, the three can now get a chance to work like fiends for a grab at the next prize: a one-year renewable residency permit. They have approximately twelve months to cover that part of the course.
Will they get ordered back to the Home that expelled them? Sent to another in this town or elsewhere? No one knows for the time being, so the good news is more in the nature of a shift in the load of uncertainty. For sure, they can’t be hustled off and returned to their country of origin. Everything else: an ongoing balancing act.
I’d rather not spend too much time here on the other ups and downs registered yesterday. Suffice it to say there are more annoying ants than there are deviled eggs and sandwiches during this stretch of the picnic. Do we laugh anyway? You bet, as best we can. (No, this is not a use of the royal We, but an inclusive reference to friends near and far).
Meanwhile, the dog sleeps and doesn’t stray at all during the morning walk.
I’m not sure what benefit the draft will get from my current attention to the characters in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, or What You Will. I go on reading and pondering anyway.
One of the boys – the one whose original birth certificate got messed up by the briny, briny Mediterranean – opened up more than usual last night while we discussed events at the Home and the uncertain immediate future. I asked him to keep an eye on another of the boys who doesn’t have his ability to see beyond emotionally charged circumstances. (This other boy was close to tears at the thought he might get sent back to the Home from which he was expelled – even for a single night. I sympathize like mad, listen and empathize too, and try to explain the need, sometimes, to bite the bullet one more time. Outside the realm of revenge fantasies, injustice ain’t much fun to deal with.)
The title to this post summarizes how matters stand in my head at 8:29 AM on May 3rd 2016.
Plus, as usual, the unexpected bits. To whit: on coming home yesterday afternoon, a new Gitano neighbor (temporary? permanent?) rang my doorbell and asked if I like goat cheese. Uh…yes, I said. He said he’d be right back and returned with four packaged cheeses from the supermarket. He’d traveled from Spain with his three children. Some relatives had packed a lunch for them, “but I don’t like goat cheese,” he said.
Gracias y con gusto. I do.