DayDream:One

Driving Maxine always makes me impatient. Perhaps it’s her—the six cylinders, the 275 horsepower, or the sound system whose clarity takes me away from the road. Or perhaps it’s me—a reckless young man, reinforcing the insurance company’s claims to atrocious rates. Either way, just as I’m approaching the bridge, I whip out from behind the tan corolla that has been doing the speed limit in front of me and triumphantly speed into the gradual incline of the open road of the bridge. Everyone is behind me. I turn up the music. The crosswinds are strong without the other cars to dampen them, but Maxine holds the road and I push her harder. When I reach the crest of the bridge, Maxine becomes airborne. Once we have severed our connection with the ground, the world becomes…strange. We’re not coming down. What happened to gravity? I frantically buckle my seatbelt. But then quickly calm down when I realize that I am dreaming. Though I know my life isn’t in danger, I still can’t reconcile the strangeness of these events with sense of mundanity. I sit upright and take in the view. The sun is setting to my right—the cerulean autumn sky is melting into oranges and reds, and a few clouds that are turning gray in silhouette stripe the horizon. In the air, however, the steering wheel no longer determines my direction. My head does, and Maxine is drifting off the bridge. Surprisingly, I know this. I straighten my head and Maxine resumes her trajectory above a lane. I keep peaking, however, at the slowly fading spectacle out of the corner of my eye, afraid to miss a moment. And due to my divided attention, Maxine finally does drift over the edge of the bridge. Before arriving at the other bank, I lose altitude and plunge into the river. In my rearview mirror I notice the rest of the traffic also raining into the river—a white Hummer, a long black limo, many SUVs, one red convertible with a woman’s equally red hair trailing toward the sky like a crashing meteor. Is it common to fall off this bridge? I swim out through the sunroof and guide Maxine slowly to the shore. She’s buoyant enough to lead with one hand, or am I’m just stronger in dreams. Should I be concerned about the engine? Everyone else does the same, so I dismiss my concerns. No one appears to be hurt. Once the wheels hit the sand, I drive Maxine onto the dry land. A tall, spindly, white woman with glasses that look too heavy for her nose greets us at the shore and directs us to a toll booth on the road. The mundanity of our situation is conveyed in the boredom of her tone. I follow the narrow dirt footpath to what looks like a lemonade-stand and present my soggy ticket. What ever happened to E-Z-pass?
“Five dollars!” demands a little boy with a surprisingly deep voice. This is a state employee? He couldn’t have been more than 12 years old.
“Huh!” I thought the toll was $4, I think to myself.
“Five dollars mister!” he repeats more insistently.
Before I can protest, a tall round-bellied man in a backwards Yankees cap returns behind the counter. He’s panting. Without missing a beat, “Four dollars sir!” he says in a voice almost identical to the boy’s.
I fix the little boy with a menacing look and fish four dollar bills, crumpled and wet, from my pocket.
“Oh!” the man begins puzzled. “You came outta the river?”
“Yes.”
“Five dollars sir!”
“Why!?!”
“River animal preservation, River pollution prevention, Car washing, River bank maintenance—take your pick. But it’s five dollars.” The little boy sticks his tongue out at me. One would think I chose to fly off the bridge.
I find another crumpled, wet bill in my pocket, leave it on the counter, and step out of line, which by now winds all the way down to the riverbank. A little girl standing a few feet from the line shuffles to my side. She looks Native American, with almond skin, a cherubic round face, and straight, jet-black hair. I guess that she’s 6 years old. She is twirling her foot in ground, following her footwork with her eyes. I take one step back from her, finding the proximity uncomfortable.
“Can I help you?”
She faces me but doesn’t answer.
“Where are your parents?”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“Where do you live, where are you going?”
She meets my eyes and points vaguely over my shoulder. For a second I think she’s pointing at me rather than somewhere. I dismiss the thought and turn around to follow her finger in the direction of the continuing road.
I pause for a moment. “Are you stuck here?” I finally ask.
She nods.
“You should talk to the police at the toll booth.”
She shakes her head vigorously and grabs my hand imploringly.
“Ok, Ok. I’ll take you home.” Do I mean to my home or hers? She seems satisfied, but it’s not clear to me what she thinks I mean. “What’s your name?”
She relaxes and resumes her footwork. Then she mumbles into her chest, “Amber.”
“Amber, that’s a pretty name. My name is Amir. My car is this way.”
Standing next to my car is an attractive, ebony-black woman, with short hair. I make no attempt to hide my undressing glance. It’s my dream after all right? She has two bright-eyed children in tow, a boy and a girl, one white and blonde, one east Indian respectively, both about Amber’s age.
“D’you need a ride somewhere?” I offer.
“No. Do you?” She retorts.
Only then do I realize the car we’re standing beside isn’t Maxine. In fact, she’s nowhere in sight. Has she been stolen? My face must say it all, for I am speechless.
“Hop in. Tell me the story while we drive.”
Amber jumps in the back seat and begins playing with the other kids happily. As I walk around to the passenger side, I realize that she doesn’t know my name. Nor do I know hers. She hasn’t even asked me where I’m going. Does she care? Nor has she asked about Amber. Does she think she’s my daughter? And these other two children are clearly not ‘hers.’ Is this even her car? Was this Maxine’s fate, to be casually appropriated by a stranger? But as I watch Amber play, and settle into the passenger seat, the anesthetizing breath of mundanity fills my lungs and I exhale my fears.
I tell her what has happened to me since becoming airborne on the bridge. She listens in silence, eyes focused on the winding road. It’s dark now. I have no idea where we’re going. The kids have fallen asleep in a pile on the back seat.
“Well, I need to go home first,” speaking for the first time since we started driving. “But afterwards, I’ll help you any way you need except bear your children.”
I turn to her in surprise.
She glances away from the road and winks. “Just kidding,” she adds.
But I’m not sure what she is recanting—the obviously flirtatious proposition implied in helping me in any way, or the qualifier that she would not bear my children? I smile and decide not to ask for clarification.

Keepsakes

“Please enter your password. Then press pound,” says the mechanical voice, timbre pitch programmed to connote gender. Can a machine or a recording be, or even sound, female?
The phone beeps with each number I type—*****.
“You have 7 saved voice messages,” the voice continues. “To listen to you messages press 1. To send a message, press 2. To change your personal options, press 4. To disconnect press star.”
I don’t have any new messages, but this call is simply to indulge in nostalgia. I press 1.
“First saved voice message.”
“Hi babe it’s me. I just got your message I figured you were on the bus and maybe you could chat for a bit. Umm, I’m in the talks now but we have a little break. But I figure that you’re probably sleeping. In fact I can picture right now, with your head against the window and your mouth is open and your sleeping on your hand and your fingers are all curled up, on your cheek, and your probably drooling a little, and your eyes are all sleepy and squinty. But umm, yeah, (laugh, laugh) if you’re on the bus later, umm, we should be done like after 11. Umm, gimme a call then, or I’ll try to call you when I’m finished. Okay? Byyee.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7. To send a reply message, press 8. To save it, press 9. To hear more options, press 0.”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hi A***, it’s mommy. Gimme a call sometime. Okee doke. Byye.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7. To send a re—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
Singing into the phone he says “When you cry, I do a dance for—wait, that’s not very nice. When you cry, I dry your tears with the back of my wrist. And when you sneeze, I cover your nose with the front of my wrist. And when you fart, I fan your fart with the front of my wrist. And when—(Laugh, Laugh) And when you laugh, I have to laugh with all my…twist. (laugh) And when you sleep, I hold your head with the inside of my wrist. (laugh, laugh) Yo man I was listening to one of your old messages, and wondering what kinda poems you have on love these days. It may need a little addition to the progromme. So gimme a call back mon. And uh, you know uh, let’s touch base. Alright. Peace.”
“End of message. To erase—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hello this is R*** and F*** calling to wish A*** a happy birthday. I imagine that you’re either having the preparty, the party, the dinner, the afterparty, or making love. And we expect that there will be lots of love in all stages. (laugh) Umm, A***’s birthday on our end has been marked by the first night of Boric Acid. We hope it works. Talk to you later. Bye bye.”
“End of message—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hi babe, it’s me. I’m just calling to say that I’m going to sleep and to see how your studying is going, ummm. I guess your still engrossed in your books that you didn’t hear your phone, which is ok. I’m just getting to bed now so if you get this give me a call back, ummm. Otherwise have a good night and I love you very much. Bye.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.
Singing loudly into the phone, “Cousin A***. What’s up big boyy. This is R**, callin’ from the west coast. Tryin’ to see where you at. How ya livin’. What’s goin’ on in your world. Get back at me, whenever you got the time. Drop a dime. Call me at ###-###-####. Alright little brotha. Stay blessed. And keep on doin’ what ya do. Yeah! Much love, to you.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.
“Hi A*** this is M********* calling to find out if you got there ok. And I was beginning to wonder that I gave you the wrong address or the, or was steering you the wrong way on the wrong side of the street or something. Oh I don’t know, umm, cuz I know there are galleries on the opposite side of the street too. So, I hope you found it. And you’ll tell me all about it when I see you on Monday night I guess. Bye now.”
“End of message—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. End of messages. To listen to your messages press 1.”

On the 1

For 10:15pm on a Thursday, it is crowded on the uptown 1, but we all have a seat. I force myself to read to overcome the occasionally embarrassing urge to people watch. But will only gets you so far. Somebody bumps your foot. A Hispanic woman boards the train speaking loudly in Spanish to a fussing toddler in tow. An older woman gets on at 34^th street and I relinquish my seat by the door. Half the train leaves at Time Square to catch the 2 or 3 express and I sit back down. Though it would save me time to do the same, I stay on. In this insomniac city, I can relax in the illusion that I don’t need to move till I’m there. I try to read again, but then a young woman’s shadow casts on my page as she leans over to read the map behind me. I try not to glance at her cleavage. An a capela group enters from another car to sing for what change we can spare. They’re talented, but all I have is a 20. A teenage boy next to me listens to his music through headphones loudly enough for me to discern lyrics. I like the song. A homeless man tries to pluck our heartstrings with an honest appeal to our humanity. I’m moved, but not $20 worth. And it continues like that, one distraction after another, until by 96^th street, where everyone going local before 168^th boards. I’m amused to recognize two passengers who got off at 42^nd.

Finally, I close my book and permit myself a good look around, deciding that even if enlightenment comes in the next paragraph, I’ll need to reread it. There are the usual furtive glances, seeing without seeing, contrasted by the unwavering stare of the man in sunglasses. There are the elder riders who watch with the confidence of their age. And then there are always the few sleeping souls probably going all the way to the Bronx. This week, I’ve been drawn to parents, or rather parenting. I watch curiously as mothers, fathers, entertain and contain their charges. But the whole time, they maintain an alertness equal to their children’s obliviousness, meeting the eyes of all observers in turn. When they get to me I smile and look away. Yesterday I saw a little boy, no older than 4, slap his mother full out across the face—straight arm, long back swing, open palm—only to be met by a firm stare. When I felt her eyes about to meet mine, I looked away, afraid to acknowledge what I’d seen. But tonight, except for the toddler of the Hispanic woman, now sleeping in his mother’s lap, there are no children on the 1. Directly across from me an attractive middle-aged, brown-skinned Dominican woman appears to sleep on the muscular shoulder of a tall, black man. A gold wedding band glistens on her fist, tucked under her chin. With his opposite hand, the man fingers lazily through a thin paper back, The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm. Sometimes I feel as though I recognize passengers, strangers who regularly ride the 1 like I do. But amidst 8 million people, I dismiss the thought as improbable. Aside from the ethnic tendencies of the subways going to different boroughs, are all the trains like this? It was a pretty typical ride for me anyway, at least until 125^th street.

The subway car came to a slow stop at the elevated station at 125^th. About a dozen cell phones emerge to take advantage of our stint above ground, Chocolats, Razrs, Sidekicks, Blackberry’s. My pocket vibrates with a message, but I ignore it. The buzz of one-sided conversations fills the car. But as the doors open, a crying woman stumbles into the train. No, not crying, bawling. She looks up long enough to find the nearest seat, right corner, where those sitting nearby scatter as if her pain is contagious. Silence follows in her wake as we stare. She is an attractive Latina, casually dressed—jeans and a pink tank top, white tapered coat, matching Nike's and modest make up. She bends over her knees and weeps. I look around at the other passengers. What can one do? The sleeping Dominican starts to approach her, but is pulled back by the tall black man. I look at him, surprised. My glance catches his attention, but her averts his eyes. Shouldn’t someone do something? As the train pulls out of 137^th, her tears continue to hypnotize us, demanding our silence. Suddenly, as we approach 145^th, she sits up, struggles to remove a ring from her finger and throws it the length of the subway car, only to chase it immediately. She retrieves it just as the doors open, and runs out.

The Truth?

The story I tell my family is that we met salsa dancing. I tell them we emailed all summer before our first date, during which I cooked for her—coconut rice and peas with fried plantain and steamed broccoli. But then I envision my grandmother’s knowing grin as she recognizes the romantic qualities of a man cooking for a woman. So I quickly direct their attention to her beauty, “She is a poet, a biologist, Ghanaian.” And they smile. Everyone, on some level, can appreciate a conservative front, even if it is only skin deep.

But it’s not entirely false either, just a rose-hue to color the grays of the pessimistic eye. You see the truth is I met her in Soma, a hip-hop club, while hunting with my wingman and unnamed player extraordinaire. Nor do I tell them that even in the darkness, her hips in her short skirt were as smooth as wheel-thrown pottery. Nor do I mention the fact that she wouldn’t give me her number and that that was the real reason for our email correspondence. But they do know that I care for her, maybe they even know that I love her, despite the fact that that information I most certainly omit. What’s curious though is that more than likely they wouldn’t care where or how I met her. Sure they enjoy hearing of our fairy tale encounter, the romantic dates, the charming courtship, and the innocent intentions. But what is probably most accurate is that I am afraid that the possibility of their judgment would bruise me.

Call me 'Old Man'

As I sit at the edge of the U Penn pool, earning my free membership, I try to keep my mind alert, despite a still body and fixed gaze. I find more creative ways to combat the monotony of watching the scantily clad do laps. I recount the swimmers, unnecessarily dividing them into number of men and women, and devising overcomplicated systems of remembering the steadily growing amounts. I text a beloved friend, and receive a reply. I plan the rest of my day, my week, month, year...in each case setting incremental goals to make the insurmountable seem manageable.
But today, amidst the meditative supervision, a rather unexpected event occurs. A stranger swimming in lane one summons me, pronouncing my name with an arresting familiarity.
"Yes sir?"
"Could you please support me as I exit the pool?" he respectfully requests in accented English. I can't place it though. Southeastern Europe? Middle Eastern?
I meet him at the steps and hold his large, wrinkled hand for the duration of his climb. When he is securely on the deck, he smooths his white wiry hair, dramatic against his tanned skin. He is short, maybe 5'5". And as I look down at him, I notice the square ends of his claw-like toenails, and worry that this old man lives alone. I stand near to him as he hobbles down the pool.
"Thank you Amir. I'm going to use the sauna for five minutes."
"Oh ok."
"So please help me again then. When I sit it is difficult to get up."
"Oh ok," I repeat. The inflection in my voice conveys my understanding. "So in five minutes then."
"Yes please. Don't forget. If you forget..." He finishes the sentence by cutting the air before him horizontally with his hand. The sauna warning springs to mind, recommending at 160 degrees to take a break every 10 minutes, and use no longer than 30 minutes.
It is 12:54 when I return to my guarding post. By 12:59 I have checked my watch 15 times. I find the old man on his back, eyes closed.
"Hello?" I whisper.
"Yes, support my back please," he says while extending his hand, which I take quickly.
With great effort, he sits upright and then rests. I am beginning to sweat, but dare not leave. Finally, outside in the refreshingly humid 84 degrees, I escort him to the exit.
"I used to do everything you know," he says matter-of-factly. "Soccer, basketball, tennis, track, but now all I can do is swim."
"Oh yeah? I play those sports."
"Yes, well thank you again Amir."
"Your welcome. What is your name?"
"You can call me 'Old Man', but my name is Rauf."
"Really? my middle name is Rauf. Rauf meaning the Compassionate?"
"Indeed!" And he hobbles away, smiling.

Freeze Tag

“Do you remember when freeze tag was a mating game…” I recall a poet in the Nuyorican poet’s café speak to me. I quickly wrote it down, struck by the insightful truth she illuminated in my past, all of our pasts perhaps. The other day I told my mom that I have a very selective memory of my childhood. And even that which I remember is muddled by those memories I have been reminded of, through the nostalgic sharing of my family.

But there are those that even my mom does not remember, or things that she could not remember. Like kissing a friend in our bedroom closet while playing hide and seek, or learning the art of making-out at parties, where spin the bottle and truth or dare were accepted inevitabilities. Rama and I used to host all day birthday parties. Guests could show up any time from 3pm to midnight. The beach party was 3-6, then we served food. The dance party began by 8. At 10:30 maybe, we retreated to our bedroom to appease our curious, budding hormones in the manner deemed most comfortable and tolerable. But what else, I only remembered one Volks Wagon, when in fact we owned two or three throughout the course of my childhood. I distinctly remember playing with the gear stick, imagination deeply embedded in an adventure to town or the land, and then accidentally putting the car in neutral. When the car started to roll down the hill, I jumped out, and yelled at Rama to do the same. We stood there dumbstruck as the car continued toward the main road. Luckily it swerved off into a fence before reaching the moving traffic. I remember Aba wasn’t mad, to my surprise, just relieved that we weren’t hurt. I remember standing on the porch of our Falmouth house, dictating in perfect baby talk the meaning of life to all that passed, complete with gestures, dramatic pauses, melodic emphasis, expressive facial contortions, and emphatic punctuating changes in tone. I think I even got some responses. I remember riding my red tricycle in the house while Aba was out, knowing damn well it wasn’t allowed. Once I almost destroyed my homework book cuz it was in the middle of my race course, and I neglected to move it. I lied to my teacher that Rama did it. I clearly recall the enthusiasm with which I cut down several “weeds” and presented them to my mom as spinach. I was disappointed when we had spinach that night for dinner, thanks to my efforts. I also remember piling in the backseat of our VW station wagon, buried in our stuffed animals, on our way to our new house in Hodges Bay. I remember our pets, Ivory (a white dog that grew to a ripe old age), Crick and Crack, who grew up with us from puppies and followed us everywhere, Zulu, the cat that bit, one of the few cats I disliked, and frisky, Rama’s parakeet that used to land on our head. That bird brought so much joy before it drowned in a pitcher of Kool-Aid. I remember my determination to climb our coconut trees, and my eventual success. And there is the first time I saw the game chess, Aba was playing…someone, Roland maybe, he was very dark skinned though. He was bouncing around with his knight, tip-toeing through the defense it appeared. And I was given my first piece of chess advice, “never underestimate a knight.” Aba then taught me how to play, and it was many years before I could beat him. But I did eventually. And school, responsible for at least half my life, reserved a spot in my selective mental records, Montessori, St. Nicholas, Grammar School, Hanover High, Lebanon High, Home School, Dublin, and finally Swarthmore. That is the structure for a cohesive narrative right there, but only half the story. I remember wrestling with Rama, and the one time we really fought, and how different those two states of struggle had been. Uncle Gregory picked me up and sat on me till I calmed down. I don’t even remember what it was about, but we both dropped back into martial arts stance, and were ready to wreak havoc. In hindsight, I was a problem child, harboring a selfish and intolerant sense justice. I know this. And I remember Aba, so much about him. I felt awake in his presence, awake enough to question instead of just dream my way through life. I remember our cistern water, and how alive it tasted, so intricately full of spirit the way a good wine evolves as it progresses across the palate. I remember purple dragon, the martial arts school that served as an outlet for my short temper. And I also remember when freeze tag was a mating game, when I would risk capture to unfreeze my crush who wasn't fast enough to avoid capture and would inevitably be frozen several more times before getting to safety. And now I recognize the naïveté that kept me from knowing that my crush liked me back. Oh well.

Natalie Goldberg said that memoir is a way of letting go of the past. So maybe that's why I'm mildly obsessed with accounts of my childhood, or why I easily journal about my deceased father, but have written few words on my charismatic mother. Or maybe that's why I sometimes feel that my life now is not worthy of a blog post.

Sing With Me

Sleeping

“What do you when I fall asleep before you?”
“Nothing. Sometimes I just think. Sometimes I watch you sleep.”
This is like a fairy tale, I thought.
“Sometimes I talk to you.”
“Really?” I asked betraying my surprise with my tone. “What do you say to me?”
“Sometimes I tell you how I feel about you,” she said as smoothly and as automatically as if she had rehearsed the response.
I smiled then, that suppressed smile that only gets out of the corner mouth, the one my father used to give us when he was amused by our naïveté. But my smile wasn’t patronizing. It was a symptom of endearment. A warm shiver ran up my spine. Did she know that I at that moment, I knew for certain that she loved me?

Now, two weeks later I held my guitar to my chest with the hands of a mother, gently yet unmistakably protective. I never feel more vulnerable than when sharing art inspired by her with her. She is almost always the muse.
“I wrote a new song.”
“Yeah? Play it for me?”
She made herself comfortable on the carpet before me, and bathed in the soft lamplight.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason. Nevermind.”
So I began to play.

I only say I love you when you’re sleeping,

She smiled brightly, guiltily, so I stopped, feeling self-conscious.
“Why are you smiling?”
“No reason. I’m just smiling. I like it.”
“You do?"
“Yeah.”
With that final word, I remembered that she loves me. In my self-consciousness I had almost forgotten.
I began again.

Chorus
I only say I love you when you’re sleeping
Cuz I have never heard you say those words to me
And I only ever guess how you are feeling
By the way that you smile when you’re with me

Verse1
I asked one night do you judge me when I’m weak
You said nothing, just kissed me on my cheek
Cuz baby I can’t be without you, not for too long
Cuz it’s your proximity that keeps me strong

Chorus

Verse2
So like each night with your dreams came my confession
I said my love for you is like the space between each heart quake
But I know in the morning you won’t remember
Cuz I still can’t say these words when you’re awake.

Chorus

On Childhood, part 1

When I was seven years old I punched my second grade teacher in the stomach, and while enduring bodily harm refused to tell my parents the true reason why. Even now, after having seen a second grader through the eyes of a teacher, I am unable to reconcile the incredible idea that one of my charges would strike me, yet each time I relive that experience, I feel that on some level, my level, I acted rightly.

Before it closed for reasons I was too young to understand, the Montessori School in Antigua West Indies was located directly across the street from the national cemetery. The school building was a long, one-story, white, concrete structure that sat perpendicular to the main road. In front of the building, beyond the grassy playground that sloped down to the chain-linked fence that separated about a hundred children from the improvised parking lot, running parallel to the building for the entire length of the property like a moat, lay the dirt road driveway funneling parents and students through the bottleneck of the ground’s gate. After a slow, bumpy approach, my mother expertly back-in parked our off-white VW station wagon. I grabbed my backpack and Transformers lunch box from the floor of the back seat and darted through the school gates lest I squander the precious unstructured minutes before school, and quickly became anonymous among the green and khaki uniformed masses that crowded the playground. Rama was close on my heels. He had come along way since his first year when he’d cry every step of the way to the colorfully nurturing classroom of Ms. Lem.

My classroom, or rather, Ms. Dass’, was two doors down from Ms. Lem’s. The only detail of note was the seating arrangement, an archipelago of kid-sized table clusters, apparently randomly cluttering the center. But there was a science to Ms. Dass’ layout. With minimal maneuvering, she could navigate among us. And with our desks facing in almost every direction, there was no real “behind,” giving us the sense that she could always see us all. Furthermore, I was coincidentally positioned so that to make eye contact with my friends I needed to turn my head and thus draw attention to myself. But I didn’t complain too much, because I did have a direct line of sight to Noah, my first crush.

I don’t remember exactly how things escalated, but after giggling back and forth like text messages for most of the morning. I felt compelled to voice my infatuation. I began to sign my message, not any recognized sign language, but gestures rather than words nonetheless. Now mind you, though we had a clear line of sight, we were by no means near to each other. In fact I can safely say that for all intents and purposes we were on opposite sides of the room. When she inevitably returned her gaze to my direction, I pointed to myself, then formed the shape of a heart in front of my chest with pointers and thumbs, and finally pointed at her. Where I should have been pleased at attempting an act most of my peers would have been terrified to even consider I felt only frustration at my inadequate communication. Her expression made it clear that she did not understand what I was trying to say. I tried again, twice more, thrice, but got the same response every time, confusion. Finally, I reached into my desk, extracted a piece of paper and printed in large capitals my message: “I LOVE YOU NOAH.” I scribble my name on the bottom in a childish attempt at a signature, but I dared not hold up the note for her read at a distance lest the entire class see it and mock me to eternity. Instead, inspired by what then seemed a stroke a genius, I folded the note in half hot dog way, and began crafting one of the finest Concord paper airplanes I have ever made—weighted tip, the best design for speed and accuracy.

Upon completion, I discreetly located Ms. Dass and decided that her attention was elsewhere. I quickly faced Noah, and launched the note. As designed, it flew straight and fast over the admiring heads of two clusters of classmates, landing perfectly on Noah’s desk. There was a brief moment where again through sign language, I tried to encourage Noah to unfold the note and read it, but before she made any effort Ms. Dass strolled by, blocked our line of sight like a solar eclipse, and casually confiscated the note. Everyone’s eyes followed her as she approached the blackboard and unfold the origami.

“Give it back PLEASE!” I begged, rising to my feet.

But she ignored me, squinting over the text until her eyes lit up with the realization of what it was. A smile exploded across her face and almost as abruptly she announced, “Class, listen to what Amir has written.”

“NOOOO!” I screamed and ran at her, using all of my agility to grab the letter from her hand. But as is the case with most second graders, I was shorter than my teacher and it was merely a matter of holding the note above her head to prevent its retrieval. I jumped, and pulled at her forearms, but it was in vain. Even if I could pull one arm down she would simply pass the note to her other raised hand. Finally, in an impulsive moment, I closed my fist and drove it into her stomach with all my might. She gasped and lowered her arms to clutch her gut. In that instant I snatched the lowered love note, and bolted out the classroom door.

By the time Ms. Dass found me, she was accompanied by the principal. “Where is the note Amir?” the principal inquired coldly.

I pointed to the sidewalk where the wind was already carrying away more pieces of torn paper than I could count.

“Pick it up!” she ordered.

I looked at her in disbelief but obeyed while the pile was still manageable. When I had picked up all the pieces that I could find, Ms. Dass returned to her class, I followed the principal to her office and waited there in silence until my mother came for me.

That night, my father, between spanks with his thickest leather belt, demanded that I tell him what the note said. And each time through more and more tears I told him I had forgotten.

Eventually after 10 or 11 strokes, my mother interrupted. “Abudu, I don’t think he is going to tell you. I think he’s had enough punishment for now.”

And that was it. I was sent to bed immediately without dinner. And I was also suspended for the next three school days, during which I was to compose a letter of apology to Ms. Dass. Aside from the first morning of my suspension, which I used to write the letter, I followed my father on his various errands. In hindsight, through my second grade eyes, my only regret is that I never told Noah how I felt about her. But as an adult, I can’t help but wonder why the fear of public humiliation drove me to such extremes. Had I had the perspective to see that Ms. Dass thought I was cute, having appealed to her romantic sensibility, or that the subsequent teasing would have been only by the jealous, or that no father could sincerely spank his child over a love letter, this would have been a completely different story.