Aliens from Outer Space

 My students from last semester have taken to dropping by between classes and during their lunch breaks to say hi. One of my favorites now brings his girlfriend by, too.

Last week he told me he got a ticket for parking without a decal in the school parking lot.

“You’re an idiot,” I told him, “just go to ROTC and get one. They’re in charge.”

“Nah,” he shrugged.

“Dude, whyever not?” I pressed.

He looked at his girlfriend, then back at me. She was the one who answered.

“Ms. W, we’re Mexicans!” She half-laughed.

I arched my brows quizzically. She was trying to say something. I had no idea what. I wasn't sure what my stereotype of Mexicans was supposed to be in this situation.

“Um, you’re Honduran. That has nothing to do with anything. Go get a parking decal.”

“Ms. W, you need a license to get a parking decal.”

Truly John Doe. Not in the system at all.

“Wait, what? You don't have a driver's license?”  This kid loves cars. We talk about driving all the time. He wants to know what kind of car I drive, show me pictures of his car, talk about what’s under the hood even though I understand not one word of it... this kid breathes cars.

“Why the hell not?”

They shrugged.

“No, really, I mean, is it too hard to take the classes? Or what?”

“No, I already took the classes.”

“So what’s the deal? You failed the test?” I couldn’t quite believe it.

“Ms. W, I’m a better driver than you, probably, especially after what Mr. S said about you driving to school over the speed limit.” Darn Mr. S and his big mouth.

“So what’s the deal? Go get a license.”

His girlfriend chimed in again. “Ms. W, we’re Mexicans.”

The penny dropped. I finally understood what she meant by Mexicans. But I didn’t understand what she meant by Mexicans. So I refuted what I thought she meant: “You’re citizens of America. Don’t even give me that. I know you were born here and have documentation. That’s not the reason you can’t get a driver’s license.” 

“We’re aliens… from outer space.” She giggled. I glared at her. Stop enjoying the derogatory things people call you, kiddo. 

“Yeah, Ms. W, we’re illegal, we can’t get driver’s licenses.” But you’re not! What?

Finally, he took pity on me and explained.

“You need your parent to sign. Our parents can’t sign. They have to have a driver’s license or some ID to sign.”

Oh.

“Does it have to be a parent? I don’t want you driving without a driver’s license.”

“Don’t worry, I turn 18 soon anyhow, then I just go get one on my own.”

The bell rang and he headed back to his class, leaving me pondering my thoughts. Now, this kid is not a criminal. He's not the kind of kid that thinks it's him against the world, and that if the world isn't going his way, he's going to use whatever force he can to make it. But he does need to get to school every day, and to work, and, yeah, he also needs to get to those driver's ed classes. So he breaks the law every time he gets behind the wheel. So many of my good students are put in situations where, to meet the basic needs of life, they end up breaking the law. Not because they don't respect the law, but out of pure necessity. But it does make me wonder how they see American law-- when it turns into a behemoth of obstruction rather than a safeguard of individual rights, just how much can you respect it?