Just Perfect
I allowed my fifth-graders classroom visitation rights at lunch time if they had complete assignments and had behaved. During one such break, I asked how many of my students had been in kindergarten together. Six or seven raised their cute paws.
The warmest of contented smiles grew on Carla. She’s a character, taller than the rest, outgoing, bold even. She said to her classmates, “Do … you remember … him?”
The others all cooed as if they each cradled a newborn puppy.
“Oh … de blondie.”
They sang it and their eyes sparkled.
“Yes.”
They murmured in unison, “The blonde one.”
Juanita, still in a semi-stupor said, “His blue eyes.”
“I loved him,” declared one.
“Me, too,” said another.
“We all did,” offered a third.
A dreamy glaze came over them and they quieted into a swoon-like trance. I’d never seen this before in them or any girls in all my years. Absolute silence. They stared at the ceiling, eyes up or even closed. Lost, gone.
I’m thought: THESE ARE 10-YEAR-OLD GIRLS! OMG…WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?
One girl said, “If he held hands with someone else, I would pull their hands apart. Or push that girl. I wanted him for ME!”
The others giggled.
“Me, too! Me, too!” said Carla.
“The light,” reminded Rachael, “Remember when the sun ‘shined’ on his hair, it was beautiful. It lit up like the sun.”
Now Rachel was a good student but she never said or wrote a poetic thing that entire year. So, I was dumb-founded.
“Who WAS this kid?” I asked.
Juanita broke through their memory web, and said, “He was just perfect.”
“Just Perfect” went from one girls lips to the next … JUST PERFECT … JUST PERFECT. SI! PERFECTO!”
“What the heck is this kid’s name?” I asked.
A sad look encompassed them. A shoulder shrug went up here. Two or three of them lifted both their hands palms upward there. The universal sign of I don’t know.
“What?” I asked again. “You don’t know his name?”
They shook their heads with a collective, “No.”
“How?” I pushed forward with this great mystery.
“He moved,” replied one.
“It was a long time ago,” state another.
Nods of agreement confirmed the statements.
“So you all lost your hearts in kindergarten when you were 5 years old over the same blonde, blue-eyed boy? And now you are 10 or 11.”
“Si … yes, teacher … yes. Si … he was so perfecto ... perfect.”
As my small girl-herd, remained in a semi-hypnotic spell, the little wheels in my head went around and around.
“Umm, do you want me to find out who he was?”
“What?” said one.
“How?” asked another.
They snapped out of their hypnotic state.
“I can go to the office and look in the records and find a class photo of you all and Adonis?”
“Who is dis Adonis?” Asked Carla.
“Oh, just a famous handsome guy.”
“You can find him for us?”
“If he took a class photo that year.” I said, “Plus, you said he was a blondie. Shouldn’t be hard. Girls hit the playground. I’ll go to the office and after lunch we shall see.”
They were delighted.
I shot up to the office and in no time found their kindergarten class photo. I chuckled to myself as I noted how cute they were as kindergarteners. Different haircuts. Thinner or heavier faces. They’d changed a lot. Amazingly cute each one of them. And Mr. Blondie was there too.
After recess the class poured back in class. I kept a straight face and gave the class a long reading assignment. My lovey-dovey girl crew nervously shot glances at me. I eye-balled them, tapped on my desk, and pointed at something on my desk. “Carla,” I asked “Want to see something?”
She nodded. I waved her forward. I placed my thumb over blondie’s picture. I then pointed, one by one to her love-swaddled buddies in the class photo. She confirmed who they were. She chuckled, “Marisol is sooo cute teacher and look at Juanita’s hair.” She looked at Marisol in the back of the class. Marisol reddened.
“His name is Ryan.” I said keeping my thumb over his face.
“Dat’s right. Ryan! I remember.” Coo-ed one.
“SI! It was de Ryan,” confirmed another.
I took my finger off Ryan’s photo. Her smile quickly grew to a look of horror.
“He has de FAT head! Teacher! And de biiig ears. He is de goofy looking.”
And so it was with each one of them. They came up, looked and were dumbfounded when reality crushed their warm false memories.
Each went back to their seats, stunned. One shook her head with closed eyes. Another hugged herself. But Carla, she scowled at me and pointed her finger at me.
“Teacher! You ruined de perfect. You are de dream killer!”
It took about a week, but eventually they wanted in at lunch recess again.
