In the Miami airport, waiting our turn in the line of returning U.S. citizens, I look around. Marlo and I are the only Caucasians among the 200 returning citizens.
And each of us hears the same words from the immigration officer when he checks our passports and lets us in: “Welcome home.”
It is good to be home.
But home looks strange. The houses are huge and far apart and sealed with glass. All dirt is covered by grass, shrubs, mulch or cement.
When we arrive in Raleigh, our granddaughter Elise smiles and grabs our fingers—two brand new skills.
Her mother looks tired. It’s been a tough week for her as her school’s vice principal, she says.
Yesterday a knife with a six-inch blade fell from one student’s backpack. He had told a classmate the day before he planned to stab his teacher. He was suspended.
Last week she evacuated a classroom when a student threw a chair. Before he’d been controlled he had trashed the classroom, hurling lunches, books, and more chairs before he was restrained.
Our daughter-in-law is vice principal for an elementary school.
And the grade level of these two students is (brace yourself):
Kindergarten.
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