I have published this before, a long time ago. But new readers have arrived. And besides, I like it.
I hope you do too. Okay, here we go.
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 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 “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 earlier, 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 classmates, while others avoided me, fearful of
contracting “Dead Dad” 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
image. I needed a different kind of
attention, and Fate, via Miss Platt’s announcement, had led me to 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 included bright, 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 Moment had arrived.
Smiling beneficently, as I imagined Saint Valentine might have, I
reached deep into my bag for the first the many valentines yet to come, and
brought out…
…a chicken bone.
That was strange, I thought, and maybe 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.
Mistakenly, I had left my bag of valentines at home, and I
had come to school 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 turned 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 I’d pay the price in 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 never arrived. It was also about my Dadless. They wanted me to know it was okay.
The healing began, due to little Jews and Valentine’s Day.
2 comments:
Way back in the late 60s in 6th grade for Valentine's Day our teacher stuck up manila envelopes where kids could leave Valentine cards for the ones they had the hots for. Coming back from lunch, I caught my teacher stuffing a few valentines in my envelope and ,alarmed, asked what she was doing. I thought she was being a snoop. She just turned bright red, mumbled something and told me to take my seat. Nowadays, people would have thought she was hitting on me or something else disgusting but many years later I found out that no one, NOT A SINGLE PERSON, had left a valentine in my envelope and she, thinking my feelings would be hurt, had swiped a few valentines from other kid's envelopes and stuffed them in mine. My hormones hadn't really kicked in then so it wouldn't have been a big deal to me if no one had left anything for me. Myself, at my mother's insistence,I dutifully left a valentine in everybody's envelope. Even at the young age I was thinking "This is ridiculous." I do remember a couple of girls seeing my name on a valentine and going "YUCCCCCCK!" and throwing it away. I know after that year they did away with that long standing tradition; I guess I wasn't the only one who didn't get any cards and to avoid any wailing kids or emotional trauma in the future the school said "The hell with it".
That's quite a story, very good. I'm also impressed that you can recall such distant memories and I only say that cuz I cannot recall my 1st or 2nd grade teachers let alone a single significant event from that era. Anyway, good story, thanks for sharing!
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