Return to Sender: Parts 1–2

If they left their home behind, it’d be like the Trail of Tears Tyler learned about in history class last year. How the Cherokee Indians had been forced from their land to become migrants and march a thousand miles to the frontier.

If they left their home behind, it’d be like the Trail of Tears Tyler learned about in history class last year. How the Cherokee Indians had been forced from their land to become migrants and march a thousand miles to the frontier.

Often during the day, he would find himself thinking about what was happening right then back home—the cows were being milked or the back meadow mowed or the bales stacked in the haymow as the swallows dove in and out of the barn.

Every weekend, there was a party to go to or an outing to an amusement park or—Tyler’s all-time favorite—a visit to the Museum of Science. He’d gaze up at the planetarium stars and think about the universe, forgetting his farm worries for hours at a time.

Had his dad’s brother, Uncle Larry, who also farmed, offered to join their two adjacent farms together?

“Your uncle Larry had some on his farm,” Mom elaborates.

“Best workers,” his dad asserts.

“So you see, they’re most definitely not trespassers,” Mom says, ignoring the dark cloud but pulling out the silver lining.

We have not yet gotten our own telephone number, but you have the number of the patron we left for you and I will write it down here, too: 802-555-2789.

I shook my head adamantly.

“Let us converse, my daughter,” he said, nodding toward the bedroom he shares with my tíos.

He waved hello and then hung out, even helping one of them, who can’t be any older than Ben, put the milker on the skittish Oklahoma.

He has kept mulling over why he’s not supposed to talk about the new workers being Mexican.

His mother looks unsure. He has obviously caught her in a contradiction, which usually means he’s going to get scolded and sent up to his room.

“How come you name the cows after the United States?” the middle one persists. She seems to be the big mouth in the family.

The Mexican workers are helping them stave off having to sell the farm while they decide if Dad is going to recover enough to be able to manage, even if he doesn’t do the actual work.

“A fight fight or a disagreement?” His mom would make that distinction.

Tyler looks over at Dad, hoping he’ll stick up for the underdog, like he often does.

Now that his right hand is out of commission, he has to feed himself with his left, which means eating dinner takes him twice as long.

Mom sets down the brownie platter and nods at Dad’s plate. “Are you done with that?” she asks, all brisk business.

“I’m done,” he says in a resigned voice, as if he’s giving up on more than his chicken stir-fry.

She has preceded him to his secret place in the hayloft, something Tyler is not happy about.

Tyler teaches her the most prominent constellations, first pointing them out, then having her look through the telescope.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply, which strikes Tyler as just the right thing to say. No clumsy consolations, no asking for the gory details.

It’s almost as if he’s giving himself a once-over to be sure there’s nothing incriminating on his person.

Esteemed Mr. President,
My name is María Dolores, but I can’t give you my last name or anybody’s last name or where we live because I am not supposed to be in your wonderful country.

We are all connected, he says, like an intricate spiderweb.

Meanwhile, my sister Ofie was breaking the rules and marching up the aisle toward Mr. R. But instead of getting upset with her, Mr. R. pulled over and came lumbering toward the back of the bus.

I wondered if maybe Tyler was falling ill again with the malady that his sister mentioned was the reason he had been sent away over the summer.

But because, as Mr. B. says, we are all citizens of one planet, indivisible with liberty and justice for all, I will also turn toward where you live in your beautiful white house, Mr. President.