Before you cross the street
Take my hand
Life is what happens to you
While you’re busy making other plans…
John
Lennon “Beautiful
Boy (Darling Boy)”
In the fall of my
seventh year, my parents bought their first home and I was forced to switch
schools a month into second grade. I
loved my old school, even though I did try to run away when I was in first grade. I have never made friends easily,
and have always been a bit of a loner.
My original school was the school of my father, mother, and dozens of
aunts and uncles, some only a few years older than me. There was family tradition and history in the
red brick walls of Our Lady of Peace Catholic School, and I had to leave it all
behind.
There was nothing
inviting about my new school. Now I was
a complete outsider—no friends, no connections, no joy. I arrived in Mrs. Vinette’s class a stranger
in a strange land. She was a woman in
the final years of her teaching career, dried up, bitter, tough and
severe. The school principal was a similarly
pinched and mean nun named Sister Benedict Joseph. We called her “Sister Billy Jack” after the
lead character in a series of hokey karate movies popular at the time. In the films, Billy Jack solved most of his
problems with a smartly placed kick to the face of his enemy. Sister B.J. did no such thing; however, she
was very good at seeing through my charade of a stomach ache every day when I
tried to escape and go home.
Without fanfare, I was
unceremoniously dumped into Mrs. Vinette’s class already in progress one Monday
morning, and the transition was done.
Now I had to live with the consequences.
To lessen the sting, my parents bought me my first Timex wrist watch in
honor of my ability to tell time. I
loved the watch, which had a calendar feature on the face, and I quickly
fixated on the glow-in-the-dark dial, checking it incessantly a hundred times a
day in the hopes someone would notice.
Therefore, I missed many of Mrs. Vinette’s intricately plotted lessons.
Before long however, I
found my new watch much less interesting.
Her name was Magdalena and she was the prettiest girl in my new
class: light brown hair in a bob, green
eyes, and olive skin. In the weeks
before I arrived, all of the students had made posters celebrating their ethnic
heritage. Hers was
Portuguese-Irish. She sat two seats
ahead of me right in front of Mrs. Vinette’s desk. I quickly noticed she was the smartest kid in
the class. I fell in love, but other
than the eye contact we made when I was introduced on my first day, she paid me
no attention, even with my shiny new Timex.
Out on the playground one
day during recess, I saw Mrs. Vinette talking with Magdalena. This seemed like a good opportunity to
impress my young love and my new teacher with my timepiece. I summoned my courage and made my
approach. “Mrs. Vinette, look at my new
watch. Do you want to know what time it
is?”
Magdalena turned and
ran off to join some other girls in jump rope.
Mrs. Vinette looked at me with plain irritation on her face. “What’s so great about a watch?” she
said. “Lots of students have watches.”
Things went from bad
to worse in my new class. We started
learning cursive writing, and Mrs. Vinette quickly discovered that I was
left-handed, and as she said aloud to the class, I held my pen “weird.” Every afternoon, we copied our letters into
our tablets. My hand ached with cramp
because I gripped the pen tightly and pressed too hard on the paper. It is a problem that has followed me through
life. I had trouble controlling my
swirls and loops, so my penmanship was illegible. Of course, this should have made me a
candidate for medical school, but Mrs. Vinette wasted no time in calling me to
the board for a one-on-one public tutorial.
In addition, the pace
of the class was faster than my previous school and I struggled to keep
up. They had blown through addition and
subtraction before I arrived, and I was still using my fingers and
occasionally, my toes. When I was called
to the board to solve a problem, my fellow students were quick to point out
that my lips moved as I counted up the answer in my head. This led to big laughs. Magdalena just looked disappointed. The one area where I excelled, privately, was
reading. At home in the evenings, I was
swallowing Matt Christopher sports novels by the truckload, often at the
expense of my other homework. My mother
took me to the public library where I cleared the shelves. One obsession was ghosts; I found a book of
photographs of alleged portraits of spirits, and immediately started having
nightmares. But I could not put the book
down. I checked it out over and over
again.
After a while, I eased
into the groove in the new class. I was
an average student, unremarkable and rather dull. I continued to love Magdalena from afar, and
I started dreaming about how in future grades I would woo her and maybe by
sixth grade, we could be boyfriend and girlfriend. By then I would be able to do something
spectacular to get her attention. But it
was not to be.
There came a day when
Mrs. Vinette called Magdalena to the front of the room. A strange woman entered the classroom with a
large Tupperware container filled with cupcakes. It was Magdalena’s mother who brought treats
for the class to celebrate her daughter’s birthday. We sang songs and wished her well, and one of
the girls in the class presented her with a giant card her friends had made the
day before during recess. Mrs. Vinette
had allowed them to stay behind in the classroom so Magdalena would not
see. Then, Magdalena grew sad and the
party darkened. “Thank you,” she said,
and began to cry.
Mrs. Vinette stepped
in. “Boys and girls, this is Magdalena’s
last week in our class. She and her
family are moving to Arizona because her father has a new job. So even though we will miss her terribly, we
must say goodbye and wish her the best of luck in the rest of her life.” The class was silent, and I heard sniffles.
“We will come to
visit,” her mother said, smiling through tears.
“I’m sure Magdalena will never forget all of you.”
She would, I was sure,
forget me, because she did not know me.
I was the new kid in the back of the room near the window who was always
dreaming of ghosts and heroes who saved the game. She did not know she was the love of my life.
Almost as soon as
Magdalena left, it began to rain and she was quickly forgotten in the
torrent. Usually, fall in Los Angeles
meant fires in the hills, smoke on the horizon, and ashes on cars in the
driveways all across suburbia. But that
year, the rains came with a vengeance.
In an unusual
confluence of things, rain poured down, my mother went into the hospital, and
my school prepared for its annual carnival.
I did not understand it then, but my mother had gotten pregnant and
suffered a miscarriage with complications.
My father was no substitute for my mother. All he wanted was for us to leave him in
peace to drink beer and watch football, which meant we did what we wanted. I gladly skipped homework and waited until I
heard him snoring down the hall before snapping on my bed light and reading
late into the evening while the rain battered the windows. I had discovered Beverly Cleary books,
especially The Mouse and the Motorcycle. I was quickly working my way through her
shelf in the public library.
On the Friday the
carnival was to start, the rain started up again with thunder and
lightning. My mother had made
arrangements with a friend to pick me up from school, and as we ran to the
woman’s car, the saturated earth refused to absorb any more water. The streets became raging rivers, and the sky
split open with electric fire. All the
rides and booths had been set up for the carnival, but as the wind kicked up,
it appeared most of the work would be undone by the storm. The clouds made the sky black in places, yet
we could also see laser beams of sunlight streaming through across the
valley. It was weird, exhilarating
weather. By the kickoff of the carnival
at six o’clock that evening, the storm abated leaving a soaked playground of
red-flagged booths, a Tilt-A-Whirl, Ferris Wheel, and a converted
tractor-trailer rig called Uncle Funderburk’s Madhouse.
My father took me and
my three year old brother to see my mother in the hospital. She was weak and pale, but she kissed each of
us and told us to have fun at the carnival.
After a stop at McDonald’s, we arrived at the brightly lit and colorful
school playground to have some fun. My
father was stuck with the stroller and my brother, so I rode many of the rides
by myself. I felt a little queasy after
the Tilt-A-Whirl, but I managed to keep my dinner down. As we walked around the different
attractions, the temperature dropped and clouds stacked ominously on the
horizon. I felt strange and electrified
as we walked.
We came at last to
Uncle Funderburk’s Madhouse. One entered
through a curtained door at the back of the trailer and exited out a
corresponding door at the front. I could
only speculate what might be in between those doors. My father bought a ticket for me and urged me
to go. He had to stay behind with my
brother. I stared up at the dark door in
the white trailer with the gigantic psychotic male face in spastic contortions
painted on the side, all of it silhouetted against the menacing sky, and realized
I didn’t want to go in. I turned to look
back at my father. “C’mon,” he shouted,
“just go.” I could tell he was losing
his patience. I mounted the metal stairs
and pushed through the curtain.
Inside, I found
profound darkness. I waved my hand in
front of my face, but could see nothing.
I stumbled down a hallway filled with screams. Bodies brushed against me, pushing me into
side aisles and I felt smothering layers of cloth and what felt like
netting. Someone grabbed my right arm
and jerked down, nearly pulling me off my feet.
I took an elbow to the face and slammed up against a wall. The screaming intensified in the pitch black
darkness, and I sensed people running and pushing. I have always been claustrophobic, and
suddenly, I felt the panic kick in with frightening intensity. I ran back the way I thought I had come, but
I kept running into walls. I struck out
against a human body and began clawing my way through the flesh. The person shoved me away. I lost my mind and punched out against every
solid object. Some of the blows landed
against muscle and bone, and people yelled into my face and hit back. My face hit the floor and I instinctively
rolled away and continued crawling toward where I thought the door might be. My eyes detected a lighter darkness ahead and
I leapt to my feet. With rubbery legs I
launched myself toward the break in the darkness and suddenly I burst out into
the night, nearly falling head-first down the iron stairs.
My father had not
moved. He stood staring off at the
Ferris Wheel, gently rolling the stroller back and forth. I ran to him sobbing and buried my face in
his stomach. “What happened?” he asked,
bewildered.
“I…couldn’t get…out,”
I choked.
“That scared you? It’s just a fun house.”
He took me over to a
food booth and bought me a Coke. I was
crying too hard to drink, and I felt again as if I would throw up.
“Stop crying,” he said
with anger. “Don’t be a baby.”
“I couldn’t find my
way.”
“You should’ve just
kept going. You would’ve found the door
eventually.”
At home, after a hot
shower, I fell into a dreamless sleep, and the next morning, Saturday, I got up
early to watch cartoons—Bugs Bunny, the Roadrunner, and Elmer Fudd, who I
always thought looked just like my father.
Later that day, we picked my mother up from the hospital and I tried to
tell her what had happened at the carnival, but she was very tired.
The weeks ran away and
Thanksgiving approached. I continued to
read Beverly Cleary books and when I could summon the courage, I’d return to
the ghost book and stare at the photographs of mists on staircases, ghostly
hands on bannisters, and orbs of light that floated over graves on dark nights. My cursive improved, as did my grades, and
Mrs. Vinette did not seem to hate me so much.
She did keep me in the seat near the back next to the window, but I did
not mind. It was a good seat for
dreaming. I also continued to have
problems with Sister Benedict Joseph—Billy Jack. Once, I convinced Mrs. Vinette that I had
severe stomach pains and loped out of the room on my way to the office to have
the secretary call my mother to pick me up.
I came around a corner and slid right into black polyester.
“Young man, what in
Jesus, Mary and Joseph’s name are you doing out of class?”
I stared up into her
thin, bony face boxed in white and black.
“I’m sorry,” I
mumbled. “I’m sick.”
“You’re not
sick!” In a deft move, she spun me and
launched my body back to the door of Grade Two.
“You’re perfectly fine,” she called after me. “Get back to class.”
That was the last time
I played sick to get out of school.
On the Wednesday
before Thanksgiving, we spent the last minutes of the school day practicing our
handwriting. We had graduated from
copying letters from the strip above the board to writing full sentences and
composing our own stories. I looped and
whirled through an adventure of a boy who was always brave and always saved the
day. Even when danger lurked, he kept
going. I sensed something was amiss and
glanced up to see Sister Benedict Joseph and the parish priest standing in the
classroom doorway. We all jumped to our
feet.
“Good afternoon,
Sister Benedict Joseph and Father Lyons,” we shouted in monotone. Sister B.J. motioned for us to sit back down.
“Okay, students, put
down your pens and pencils,” Mrs. Vinette said.
“Clear your desks and fold your hands.”
We assumed the
required position and waited. When
Sister visited our classroom, she often talked about our First Holy Communion
scheduled to take place that spring. But
once we were seated and quiet, the three adults didn’t say anything. They just stood there. Sister glared at us—her usual demeanor—and
Father Lyons, who actually looked like a red-headed lion, studied our history
posters hanging on the bulletin board.
Mrs. Vinette looked at her two superiors as if waiting for a special
signal. When none came, she turned to
face us and clasped her hands in front of her.
“Boys and girls, we
have an announcement,” she started. “A
terrible thing has happened. A terrible,
awful, unimaginable thing.” Her face
began to turn red. “There are things God
gives us. Or takes from us. And we do not know why. But we must trust him, and pray.”
Mrs. Vinette did not
look good, and I could see from the back of the room that her hands were
shaking. Father continued to look at the
bulletin boards. Sister Benedict Joseph
was now looking down. The situation
contained almost unbearable tension, and the class was silent, collectively
holding its breath. But I felt drawn
away, out the window, to the bare tree branches scraping against the glass in
the cold breeze. A bird landed on the
waving stick of tree and bobbed there, up and down. It was an English sparrow. I recognized it from a book in the library on
birds of California. Mrs. Vinette
cleared her throat, pulling me back to the surreal scene at the front of the
room.
“We have just received
word,” she said. “We have just received
word, that Magdalena, her mother and father, her little brother, were called
home to Jesus.” No one moved. The branch scraped against the window. Mrs. Vinette appeared to want a response, but
when none came, she cleared her throat again.
“Poor little Magdalena and her whole family were killed on a highway in
a terrible car accident on the way to Arizona.”
“Father Lyons will
lead us in prayer now for the souls of Magdalena and her family,” Sister said
in a voice I did not recognize for its softness.
I looked around the
room as we prayed. All the students,
Mrs. Vinette, Sister, and Father Lyons, everyone had their eyes closed in
concentration, except me. I glanced in
the corners of the room, looking for mists or orbs of light, or a faint smile
and green eyes with wisps of soft, brown hair.
I tried to picture Magdalena’s face, but it was already slipping from
memory. I was drawn instead back to the
window, the grey sky, the already bare branches of the tree outside the
classroom.
Mrs. Vinette’s
announcement had no meaning. It simply
wasn’t true. Magdalena was not dead. No, she was still very much alive, on her way
to Arizona and the rest of her life. She
would finish school, become a ballerina, maybe, or a doctor who cares for
children in Africa. She would fall in
love with someone, marry, have children, grow rich. She would be happy in her life; she would
never grow old, and she would never die.
Or, if only I could
make time go backward. Magdalena would
still be in our class in her now empty desk.
I could tell her one of the stories I was writing. Maybe she would fall in love with me, but
most important, she would still be alive.
If only she had not gone to Arizona.
When you are in second
grade in the fall of your seventh year, things happen, and then you must go on. Sometimes that is all that you can do.