"My First Valentine's Day"

My records indicate that I have not posted this story for three years.  For those readers who have arrived since then - and also because I like it - I am offering it again.

Happy Valentine's Day.

And here's my story.

      
                                                      My First Valentine's Day

                                                          By Earl Pomerantz

I had just turned seven when our First Grade teacher, Miss Platt mentioned Valentine’s Day.  In a few days, she told us, there would be a time set aside in class when anyone who wanted to could exchange valentines cards with their classmates.  And maybe slip one to Miss Platt, who was beautiful, at least to a First Grader’s eyes.  Which were the only eyes I had at the time.

The Valentine’s Day announcement created a buzz of excitement in our classroom.  So much, in fact, that Miss Platt was forced to slam her yardstick down on her desk, returning us to our First Grade study of the alphabet.  Every day, we’d learn a different letter, which meant if you missed a day, as I once did, you’d have trouble printing your entire name until the Review Period, which would take place after we’d finished learning “z.”  Because of my absence, on the day they taught the letter “r”, there was a time there when I was writing my name, Eal Pomeantz.

I need to backtrack for a minute.  The entire Saint Valentine’s Day experience was completely alien to our educational environment.  From Nursery School till Elementary School graduation, I attended the Toronto Hebrew Day School, a religio-centric institution where we studied Hebrew subjects half a day, and an English curriculum the other half. 

This was a hardcore Orthodox operation.  I once got a month’s detention for slipping off-campus and partaking of a non-kosher hamburger.  A number of my classmates went on to become ritual slaughterers, while others served as rabbis who oversaw the ritual slaughterers.  It was not a place where you heard a lot about Saints.

Regardless of the incongruity, Miss Platt said we’d have Valentine’s Day.  Maybe she was a rebel, or maybe she was a romantic.  All I knew was Miss Platt stirred up parts of a seven year-old boy’s body that were not scheduled to arrive until later.

The recess talk was all about valentines.  Who was giving, who was getting, and who’d be left out.  As far as I could tell, the distribution would be limited; friends would exchange cards with friends, two or three valentines at the most.  Being First Grade, the boy-girl component was not be a substantial factor, the exception being the irresistible Miss Platt.

To say that I saw an opportunity suggests there was calculation involved.  There wasn’t.  I just spoke before I thought.  And the words that emerged were these:

“I’m giving everyone a valentine.” 

Mouths dropped.  Everyone?  Even the boy who had “accidents” in class and had to be hurried to the principal’s office to exchange his sodden pants for the telltale corduroy replacements?

“Everyone.”

The word spread like wildfire.  I couldn’t back down if I wanted to.  I was now “On Record”:

“Everyone’s getting a valentine.”

When I decided to write this, I searched my memory for the rationale behind this magnanimous overreach.  And I came up with this. 

Six weeks before, my father had died.  Kidney failure, resulting from childhood rheumatic fever.  After the required seven-day absence for the shiva period, I returned to school, where I got sympathetic looks from some of my classmates, while others avoided me, fearful of contracting “Dead Dad’s” disease. 

The bold or more curious ones approached, asking, “Did your father die?”  I had to look them the in the eye and say, “Yes.”  Except I didn’t look them in the eye.  My eyes focused directly at the floor.  The Shame Place. 

As political consultants would say, I needed to retool my public image.  I needed a different kind of attentio.  And fate, via Miss Platt’s announcement, had provided the answer.

“Everyone’s getting a valentine.”

I bought an inexpensive book filled with valentines.  Two or three to a page, each bordered by perforated edges; you pressed the edges and the valentine popped out.  On the back of each valentine were two dotted lines, one above the other.  The top line was the “To”…line, the line below was the “From.” 

I started writing out the cards, twenty-one in all, one for every student in my class.

“To: Zvi.   From: Earl.”

“To: Arye.  From: Earl.”

The book contained a variety of valentines – a boy with a puppy, a girl with a basket of flowers, though all of them included ruby-red hearts.  I made little effort to match the cards to their recipients.  This wasn’t a personal thing.  It was about getting attention.

The next day, I walked into class, a large paper bag held proudly in my grasp.  I could sense the excitement.  Feeling all eyes on me but acting like they weren’t, I “casually” took my seat, sliding the bag under my desk and folding my hands. 

Awaiting My Moment.

Miss Platt tried to teach as if nothing was different.  But it was Valentine’s Day and everything was different.  My classmates struggled to attract my attention, seeking confirmation that they wouldn’t be left out.

“Am I getting one?” mouthed the kid with glasses who couldn’t catch.

I threw him a confirmational wink.

“Am I getting one?” gestured the girl with the sizable birthmark on her cheek.

I smiled in the affirmative.

“Am I getting one?” mimed the kid with no friends.

I nodded a reassuring “Yes.”

Somehow, these surreptitious exchanges caught Miss Platt’s attention.  And she knew where to direct her rebuke.

“Earl!  We have work to do.  Valentines come later.”

Normally, I do not take rebuke graciously.  There is usually blushing involved.  But today was a playful day.  Rather than apologize to Miss Platt for my transgression, I quipped,

“I’ve got one for you too.”

The class laughed.  It’s easy to get laughs when you’ve got a bagful of valentines.

Finally, it was time.  Miss Platt told us to put our books away.  We could now exchange valentines.  Kids got up and moved around the room, trading valentines with their friends.  It took about a minute. 

Then it was my turn.

Reaching under my desk, I retrieved my paper bag, stood up, and climbed casually onto my chair.  Everyone gathered around me.  Including Miss Platt.

My “Big Moment” had finally arrived.  Smiling beneficently, as I imagined Saint Valentine might have, I reached deep into my bag for the first the many valentines to come, and brought out…

…a chicken bone.

That was strange, I thought and possibly even said.  I quickly returned to the bag, emerging this time with…

…a banana peel.

I heard grumbling.  What’s going on?  I was wondering the same thing.  My third dip into the bag crystallized the situation precisely, as my hand emerged cradling…

…egg shells.  Still sticky.

Oh, my.

Oh, my.

The explanation was screamingly transparent.  Mistakenly, I had left my paper bag filled with valentines at home, arriving at school instead with a bagful of garbage.

I don’t remember crying or running out of the room, though I recall wanting to do both.  Then, suddenly, this amazing thing happened.

Sure, some kids walked away, disappointed.  Mine was the only valentine they were certain of, and I had thuddingly let them down.  But the majority, reading the agony in my face, rose gallantly to my support.

“Don’t feel bad,” comforted one.

“I’ll still be your friend,” reassured another.

“We like you.”  That was kind of a group response.

Smiles of support pervaded the classroom.  Though the price of my hubris was humiliation and shame, I was, surprisingly, receiving exactly what I’d been looking for – the good kind of attention.  On some level, I knew their acceptance wasn’t just about the valentines that were back in my house.  It was also about my permanent Dadlessness.  They wanted me to know it was okay.

The healing began, due to little Jews and Valentine’s Day. 

A truly powerful combination.