SNOW

It was the last day of the first semester of my first year teaching second grade, and I was already on my third cup of coffee before the morning bell rang. All I could think about as the kids filed in and took their seats was how much I wanted a cigarette, but I was trying to quit ever since I graduated college and resisting it just made my cravings worse.

I took attendance, and the only one missing that day was Juanita. That’s when I finally took my first full breath since I arrived on campus, knowing Juanita would be absent.

I loved teaching. I loved the kids. But Jaunita was just a shitty little girl. I was surprised to find myself feeling that way. Nothing in my student teaching suggested I would harbor such animosity towards someone in my class, but then I met her on the first day and immediately knew she would menace me  — not to mention her peers! — for as long as I knew her.

She would growl at the other kids. Spit in their faces. Roll on the floor during carpet time, barreling over those sitting near her. She would curse at me, tell me I was stupid, that she hated me. As much as I felt guilty to admit it, I felt the same way.

All of a sudden I found myself, 23 years old, staring down the barrel of 30 plus more years of this. I felt my shoulders slump, my cheeks sag, the grey hairs already sprouting from my prematurely balding head. I popped in a piece of nicotine gum.

The morning went well. We made paper plates with Christmas trees or snowmen on them, gluing cotton balls or pipe cleaners and drawing with markers, and I wrote each child’s name on the bottom since most of their handwriting left something to be desired.

Then I read The Polar Express, and no one rolled into anyone else on the carpet, and before I knew it, it was lunch time.

The break room was filled with menthol smoke. Popcorn streamers hung off the walls. The coffee was weak, but I had a cup with my sandwich anyway. Mr. M. pulled out a flask, gave me a wink, and poured some Christmas cheer into my mug. Peppermint schnapps.

I came back into my room, feeling warm and full of mirth, and stopped right at the door. Juanita was there, sharpening a pencil, and her mother was sitting in my high-backed chair.

“Hello, Mr. O.,” she said in her thick Caribbean accent as she stood up from my chair.

“Hi,” I said. 

“Mr. O!” Juanita said, sharpening another pencil now.

I had a history with Juanita’s mother. When I was still in college, she was one of the cooks at my dining hall, and used to yell at the her fellow kitchen workers, the co-eds, even the professors, oftentimes in a dialect none of us could understand. We used to imitate and make fun of her once we got to our tables and out of her earshot, and it became a running joke in my dorm. So imagine how I felt when I met the parents on the first day of school, heard that same voice coming down the hallway towards my room as I began my career.

“Hi Juanita,” I said, through what I hoped weren’t gritted teeth. “Will you be joining us today?”

She nodded, sharpened yet another pencil. Her mother had to shout over the sound.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. O.” Her mother said. “She was with her father this morning, and he worked the night shift.”

“No problem,” I said. “Thanks for bringing her in. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and gave Jaunita a kiss as she left.

Juanita kept sharpening pencils as the other students filed back in for the afternoon.

I was ready for the day to end by then, so I had Jessica go to the office and check out an AV cart to watch Charlie Brown or The Grinch or whatever they had available, but she came back to inform me that all the TVs and VCRs had already been taken. Of course.

Plan B. I had the kids get out their journals and write a page about what they were most looking forward to this Christmas. I wandered around the room, correcting spelling here, giving little encouragements there, and was surprised to find Jaunita quiet and engaged in the task. I asked her what she was writing about, and she told me she was looking forward to spending her first Christmas with her mom since she was a baby, since her mom had come to America first and she had stayed behind in Jamaica with her dad.

I found myself tearing up, my lips quivering. Then I really felt guilty, being so harsh with this child — this immigrant! — all semester, when she clearly was going through a difficult transition and needed help and support from the adults in her life, especially her teacher. 

“Good work,” I told her, smiling and trying to hide my emotions. I handed her back her journal, at which point she screeched at me and proceeded to tear out the pages in her paper and rip them up, throwing them into the air like confetti.

I sent her to timeout, where the kids were supposed to put their heads down on their desk and stay seated and quiet until we had a moment to talk about what they had done. I continued my rounds, prompting students here and patting backs there, until Jessica tapped me on the shoulder.

“Mr. O.?” She said. 

“Yes,” I asked, turning around.

She pointed to the window. 

Juanita was out of her seat, had left time out, and was standing there, her nose pressed to the glass.

“Juanita!” I bellowed, surprising the kids and even myself at how loud my voice had gotten.

She jolted back and turned, and that’s when I saw it.

Snow.

Snow was falling outside, in what had been an otherwise mild winter. And that’s when I realized.

“Oh,” I said, almost whispering now. “You’ve never seen snow before, have you?”

She shook her head, then pressed her nose back to the glass.

I moved a chair over for her to sit in and let her stay there the rest of the day.