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.