The Memo

 

“We got a memo from the administration yesterday,” Jess says, rubbing the shampoo into a soapy lather. She’s a fellow English instructor, teaching at a local community college. Often, we chat about teaching after our swims, in the shower or getting dressed.

            Now, I stand shivering under the hot stream of water. I just can’t get warm lately. It doesn’t matter how hot the shower is or how warm the pool water is, I’m always freezing!

            “…they said that if ICE comes into our classroom, we don’t have to cooperate with them.” Jess rinses the shampoo out of her hair, ducking under the shower head to keep from knocking into it.

            “WOW!” I shake my head, thinking how that didn’t take long. Trump was just sworn into office the day before. He didn’t waste any time, though, signing all those executive orders, this one Jess is referring to is about rounding up all the ‘illegal aliens’ and deporting them back to their home countries.

I can’t imagine what I’d do if I were teaching and ICE agents came barging into my classroom while I was giving a lecture on the writing process.  I would be terrified. Not to mention my students. Some of whom may not be in the country legally. Even if the administration said that I didn’t have to comply with ICE’s demands, what would I do?

             Jess turns off the shower, shakes her wet hair.

            “I mean, I guess it’s good that the administration is on top of it. I just can’t believe that you’d have to contend with this,” I say.

            She nods, “Yeah, well, this is what they’re gonna do. Go into college classrooms, churches, places of business.”

            Jess grabs her towel and begins to dry off. And I think, damn. Isn’t our job hard enough? Trying to teach writing to a group of students who may not know anything about it? The time in the classroom is so valuable. Do we, as instructors, really have to worry about ICE agents barreling into our classrooms? Demanding we hand over students? And then what? The instructor has to stand there and go against their commands? Are they going to just go away? Or will they arrest us? Throw us in jail? Prosecute us for noncompliance with federal agents? And will the administration do anything to support us?

            I can’t imagine. And, this is the kind of fear that instructors will have to contend with, especially those like Jess who are teaching in the community colleges. Sure, we live in California, in the Bay Area. Our politics, like these put forth by Jess’ administration, don’t support Trump and his draconian policies, yet…. will these politics protect us? Will someone like Jess really be able to tell ICE agents, “NO, you’re not taking any of my students. Get out of my classroom!”

            I turn off my own shower, grab my towel, still shivering. Is it from the cold air or the hostile environment of fear and threat that we are all going to be living under for the next four years?

            “Your leggings are so cute! Where did you get them?” one of the other women asks, the question echoing up and into the air.

            “Ross. They have the best selection.”

            “Really? I’ll have to check it out,”

            I unlock my locker, grabbing my clothes and begin pulling on my tank top, sweatshirt, sweaters, thinking how our lives will go on. These women aren’t thinking about Trump. They are thinking about where to buy their next pair of sweatpants.

            Maybe this is the answer? Just go on with our lives? Don’t think about it?

            I wish I could. But right now, I can’t. All I can do is think about Jess and her students and ICE agents barging into her classroom in the middle of a discussion of Langston Hughes.

            Jess is dressed and headed out the door now. “Pray for me,” she jokes, halfheartedly. 

            “I will!” I call after her.

            Standing at the mirror near the doorway, I finish brushing the tangles out of my wet hair, turn around and gather up all my stuff littered all over the wide wooden bench. 

            I shiver again. 

            Then head out the door, the wind whipping my wet hair into my eyes, the screech of a seagull circling overhead piercing the air.