A Step Back into Valentines Dreams Shattered

My last post spoke of childhood so let me expand upon that a bit.  Not every post will tie in the whole ‘brown girl growing up in a white world’ thread but I would like many of you to read this and can think to yourselves ‘oh wow, so she went through that also?  Hmmm,’ hopefully this will prove that we are all the same regardless of color, race, creed, religion, geographical location, etc. (not to discount the fact that I probably did face things that many did not which hopefully makes this blog interesting to read because honestly where would the fun be in just basically telling you what you already know, right?).  Sounds like some sort of speech I’m about to launch into about equality and all that?  No, there are learned folks out there with fancy degrees who can speak far more eloquently about such things then me.   I’m really just trying to shed light in my own way.  Someone asked me if I thought I’d change the world by sharing my experiences and thoughts, whether I could somehow open people's minds and hearts.  I didn’t realize that’s what I was trying to accomplish with my writing.  It’s funny how people see a loftier cause in all things while you’re simply trying to share a bit of you. 

So anyhow, here we go:

The child that you read about in the last post, she was very dear to me.  Sounds silly no?  I mean she was me and yet I’m almost writing about her in a 3^rd party perspective.  But in ways she is almost a stranger, a better part of me.  She was wide-eyed and optimistic about life.  She didn’t see those varying colors in skin; she didn’t understand the differences between how she looked as opposed to how her best friend looked.  When she laughed, it was the laughter that came from the heart.  Where for the most part she was content with a bar of chocolate and cartoons, there were other times when harsh reality would set in and teach her that life was in fact not so easy or simple. 

As a very young child I didn’t see color but as I grew, my subconscious started to accept that there were indeed differences but these were not lessons learnt easily, they were in fact quite heartbreaking.

Do any of you recall Valentines Day in grade school?  I recall it with clarity.  I was in 3^rd grade.  For weeks our teacher prepared us, giving us brown paper bags and having us decorate them and told us that we would be propping them on the corner of our desks so that we could receive valentine’s cards from our classmates.  I loved to color and draw so I employed all my creative artistic skills to the task at hand while cutting out pink and red hearts from soft construction paper with dull rounded scissors and glued them on with Elmer’s glue (that magical stuff which if you put onto your palm and let dry, you could peel off in one large hand imprint).  I took such pride in how pretty my bag looked with the addition of glitter and markers.

After school I dragged my mother to Caldor (for you younguns, that store was equivalent to Walmart) and spend a great amount of time in thoughtful contemplation before choosing just the right cards, buying an extra box ‘just incase’.  And gosh how much time I had spent in perfectly printing each child’s name, mentally going down the aisle of the classroom so that I left no one out, even those certain ‘yucky’ boys that I knew I still had to give a card to.  This was back when we were not required to give everyone a card, but just that my mother said it would be the right thing to do.

The morning of, I woke up jittery with excitement, picking the perfect pink outfit (and mind you for a child who abhorred wearing dresses that was something) which I willingly donned and rushed into my mother’s bedroom only for her to stare at me in shock.  My hair was done and then redone (by still quite a shell shocked mom) upon my insistence and off I went to school clutching a bag full of cards.  I didn’t care that my shoes were too tight and uncomfortable or that the lace at the color of my dress itched.  I was just pure excited about the party.

The day of classes were agony as all we could seem to do was talk about what was to come.  Even during lunch there was nonstop chatter.  Some girls were excited at the prospect of receiving cards from the boy they seemed to like but I was not one of those girls.  My general mentality regarding boys was that they were creatures you bested, not giggled at so I didn’t participate in any of that conversation.   Even to this day, I don’t know what had me so thrilled about this particular holiday at that time in my life.  I can’t recall any of the later valentines, but that one…well you’ll see why I remember it. 

At the much awaited time for the party we were all asked to put away our books, clear our desks and put the lovingly made paper bags at the left top corners of our work spaces.  I so plainly recall the red Kool-Aid making an appearance, cookies shaped like hearts and pink frosting coating them would manifest itself on a huge round black plastic platter and 2 bags of silver Hershey kisses coming out of our teacher’s drawer. 

As she (our teacher) and her assistant poured the small Dixie cups full of red liquid happiness, we were instructed to go around the room and deliver our cards.  I was so excited as I diligently placed one in each and every persons bag.  I tried not to grimace as I dropped them into any one of the boy’s bags but I was taught not to hurt anyone’s feelings so I had to do what I had to do.

Then it was time to partake in the sweet treats which we did so with veracious appetites while the room was practically abuzz with children’s laughter and random chatter.  I remember nibbling a sugar cookie as my eyes scanned the paper hearts strung from the ceiling, the festoons of pink and white swathed across the windows to the left and big fat colorful cartoonish cupid plastered to the inside of the door.  But soon I was ignoring all that when my teacher called for us to open our bags full of cards.

So there are pivotal moments in life, moments you don’t easily forget.  Those are the ones which you do not really connect to how you will be shaped later on in life, not at the moment in which it’s all happening.  I most certainly didn’t know then that that’s precisely what that Valentines would become for me.  A life shaper.

I reached for my bag with all the excitement of a child and even as I vaguely acknowledged others pulling out fistfuls of small white cards (even some candy) from theirs, my eyes eagerly looked into mine and I saw…5.  In a class of nearly 15 kids, I had received 5.  Hopeful that someone else would have gotten as few as me, I glanced around but no, everyone had far more than 5.  And I knew without opening those cards who they were from for I had only about 5 girls I could say in that class who would talk to me (not friends, but would talk to me). 

All that pink and white beauty from moments before, the wonderment of it all faded in a flash.  I was left with 5 cards that represented much more than just 5 people liking me, it was 9 people who did not like me even the slightest bit to give my feelings a second thought.  The tears also came naturally but I blinked them back determined not to show weakness.  To be honest by that time I had already experienced much heartbreak due to such rejection (although not identical) so I had almost perfected the art of not crying…almost.

I sat with eyes shimmering with tears, avoiding meeting the gaze of others while carefully opening each card (hunkered down in my seat hoping that my very existence would suddenly vanish).  I could have gotten through that moment just fine simply thinking to myself that things like this happened, kids were mean, but then, the ultimate in adding insult to injury.  A boy, a repulsive repugnant little snot-nosed bully of a kid who unfortunately sat right next to me leaned over and said in a real loud voice ‘you just got 5 cards <insert barking laughter here> may be it’s because you smell like spices, no one wants to get near stinky girl.”  <Insert more rude horrible laughter here>

Not before that instant had I considered it was…because I smelled of anything other than soap and water and child sweat, but this kid basically laid it down for me.  I smelled like spices?  That’s why I received only 5 blasted cards?  And why did this surprise me really?  I knew that many laughed at me because of how I looked or what I ate or what I wore.  I had heard snippy comments regarding this alleged ‘spice’ fragrance that seemed to emulate from my being.  At that moment I thought I must be like Pigpen from The Peanuts cartoon, someone who walked around in a cloud of (instead of dirt) masala.  I went red and unable to maintain my aplomb a moment longer, I ran for the bathroom.  I sat there for at least 15 minutes on the toilet crying.  No one came after me, not even my 5 friends but I hadn’t expected them to.

After a while, my teacher came to ask if I was okay, I told her I had a tummy ache and she seemed to buy this story.  Luckily the party was at the end of the school day so I was able to escape with the loathed bag of 5 cards clutched in my hand.  I met up with my brother at the corner and we walked home the rest of the way together and of course he didn’t notice anything wrong.  My mother was there to greet us at the door bombarding me with gentle questions about the party and did I get lots of cards and did the other children love the cards I gave?  I answered her with as much truthfulness as I could muster then made an escape to my room. 

Once there, I stripped off my dress and I still recall holding it to my nose and sniffing it like a maniac, turning it around and around.  Nothing, no spices.  Next I pulled my hair out of its two pigtails and held the ends to my nose, still no masala.  I grabbed all those clothes and shoved them into the hamper, flung the bag of cards disgustedly into the back of my closet, grabbed a towel and marched into the bathroom to scrub myself raw.

From that day on, I was maniac about taking a shower in the morning, putting clothes away so they were not exposed to the air and closing the bedroom door while my mother cooked.  I never told her or my father about that day, and if they read this now they’ll probably be surprised.   But I’m glad I’m finally putting this down to be honest because at the end of the day, what that experience taught me was that no matter how I didn’t look at the world in colors, others most certainly did see me that way. 

Now, don’t feel bad for me or her, she had to go through what she went through to become the woman I have become.  I have no regrets although if I ever saw that punk kid again who ratted me out, I swear I’d beat the snot out of him.