CITIZENSHIP CLASS, FEBRUARY 2003 (Part 2 - Poem)

They bring me presents, small things:
books, pictures of their countries, food.
They call me Teacher, a title of respect;
I try to learn their names, and use them
often, though some are nonsense
to my tongue, Korean, Arabic, Thai,
and some, the Haitian and Latino,
fall easily into place:
Jong Ja, Semina, Mi Sook, Bassam, Jean Elie,
Jamil, Fritz Alcé, Begum, Patareeya, Ana Luz.
For two hours, every day this term,
we gather in the dusty light,
the adult education room.
Each week the class grows larger,
we must share copies of the text.
They come with greedy eagerness,
bring brothers, mothers, friends,
hungry for the stories, for the myths.
So far I've been okay, been honest, more or less:
Columbus, Indians displaced by Europeans,
Jamestown, Pilgrims, tea and taxes,
midnight riders, war.
But, soon we will be reading Independence,
Constitution, Bill of Rights.
How can I teach those ten amendments
now made feeble by our Homeland zeal?
What can I tell them, what can I say?
"It is still better here than in your country,
but don't expect too much.
Be careful, quiet, keep your heads down."
Is this our lesson for today,
the way I must now teach survival,
teach truth, teach citizenship?