We sit among the broken people, young, unwed mothers with babies not much younger than they, a gentleman just out of a correctional facility downstate, a widow, twisting her hankerchief, my son and I. The conversation goes something like this:
Jared: I don't want to go away from you and John. Who will take care of me?
Me: Don't worry, Jar, even if you move away from us, we will always take care of you.
Jared: But what if you die?
Me: Then John will make sure you are ok.
Jared: But what if John dies?
I turn in my chair and face my son, a promise in my eyes as I say: "promise you that you will always be cared for. If we leave, then there will always be someone to take care of you, to make sure you are safe. To make sure you are happy."
Jared: OK, mom
And we sit, for another hour while the papers we brought with us, the ones that declare my son as a person with a disability, are shuffled through, copied, then paperclipped again, then handed back to me to be put in a folder labled, Jared-SSI.
Jared notes that the folders I hold are really thick. "Do my brothers have as much paperwork as I do? " he asks. "No," I tell him. You are the lucky one, the one with the most papers. " And we sit. The man from prison assures the young social worker next to us that he was discharged from that facility downstate, that he would have brought the papers with him if he knew they would be needed. We sit, next to the young Asian boys, fingers furiously playing at their laptops, as they converse animatedly in their native tongue, procuring the proper paperwork, that I assume allows them to stay here to continue their studies. We sit, as a young mother, barely 15, comes in with her son and his suspicious cough. So much struggle in this space. And to be a part of it yesterday was exhausting, yet another reminder of our differences, Jared and me.
And finally, we leave; the proper papers have been filed. The appropriate questions have been asked. We've supplied the answers they require. We ride the gray elevator down four floors and walk toward the metal detector. Jared reminds me to pick up my phone from the armed guard standing near the door. And we walk through, my son and I. We walk to the car, get in. I turn on the music, and it's a song that Jared and I both love. As we drive, I reach over, ruffle his dirty blond hair, and we look at eachother and smile.
Jared: I don't want to go away from you and John. Who will take care of me?
Me: Don't worry, Jar, even if you move away from us, we will always take care of you.
Jared: But what if you die?
Me: Then John will make sure you are ok.
Jared: But what if John dies?
I turn in my chair and face my son, a promise in my eyes as I say: "promise you that you will always be cared for. If we leave, then there will always be someone to take care of you, to make sure you are safe. To make sure you are happy."
Jared: OK, mom
And we sit, for another hour while the papers we brought with us, the ones that declare my son as a person with a disability, are shuffled through, copied, then paperclipped again, then handed back to me to be put in a folder labled, Jared-SSI.
Jared notes that the folders I hold are really thick. "Do my brothers have as much paperwork as I do? " he asks. "No," I tell him. You are the lucky one, the one with the most papers. " And we sit. The man from prison assures the young social worker next to us that he was discharged from that facility downstate, that he would have brought the papers with him if he knew they would be needed. We sit, next to the young Asian boys, fingers furiously playing at their laptops, as they converse animatedly in their native tongue, procuring the proper paperwork, that I assume allows them to stay here to continue their studies. We sit, as a young mother, barely 15, comes in with her son and his suspicious cough. So much struggle in this space. And to be a part of it yesterday was exhausting, yet another reminder of our differences, Jared and me.
And finally, we leave; the proper papers have been filed. The appropriate questions have been asked. We've supplied the answers they require. We ride the gray elevator down four floors and walk toward the metal detector. Jared reminds me to pick up my phone from the armed guard standing near the door. And we walk through, my son and I. We walk to the car, get in. I turn on the music, and it's a song that Jared and I both love. As we drive, I reach over, ruffle his dirty blond hair, and we look at eachother and smile.
I am amazed at your strength! I would have broken down and cried right there on the spot. You might have to go with me in another year. This is something I am not looking forward to.
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