Seeds
What is it about words?
They can contain a whole universe or just a tiny piece of it.
They can inflame or cool, stoke or pacify, inspire and uplift, or break our hearts.
We often remember our parents' or teachers’ words of encouragement or disdain. My second-grade teacher tortured me for being one of the bilingual kids and slow at math. I faked stomach aches a lot that year, and thankfully, my parents just let me stay home. You’d think I’d hate school because of her. I didn’t. Mrs. López, my third-grade teacher, was a salve for those wounds.
However, it was Mrs. Briggs who made me want to teach. She was tough and demanding, but her love for us was unmistakable. She made Beowulf, Macbeth, and other pieces of literature take flight in our minds. She also challenged us to write well and was never afraid to tell us how to improve. I overdid it on one essay, trying to be poetic or flashy. She shook her head.
“It’s too much.”
She bruised my ego but made me a better writer.
One day, as she talked about Shakespeare, I felt her love resonate. It was clear. I can’t put it any other way because love uncovers what we think is hidden. Her words changed me and awakened my love of teaching.
What words do you most remember from your childhood? From that teacher? Whose name still pulls at your heartstrings? What persists, whether flower or thorn?
What do you think about when you hear or read the words, first kiss?
For me, it’s Lorena, a girl who was my neighbor. She was the first girl I ever kissed, though I don’t think it counts because we were so small. That kiss stirs other memories, like our first dog, a female. I don’t remember her name, but I recall my father loading us all into an olive-green Chevy and driving over to Calumet Beach with the windows down and her head sticking out. Her mouth opened, taking in the wind.
We lived in a cramped apartment back then, our second home in the United States. It was poorly maintained, and the roof leaked. The owner rarely made many repairs but always wanted the rent on time. My mother hated it and insisted that we get our own house, which we did just a few years later. We moved during the middle of winter, just before one of the heaviest snowfalls in many years. We never returned to that place but would refer to it as “el apartamento.”
El apartamento… and the many memories: a burning garbage can thrown into the snow to snuff it out, my tía Sofía sitting in the kitchen smoking, my tío Roberto playing with us and bending our wrists forward to make them hurt. He called that a pig’s foot. My first Halloween and the massive bag of candy my mother hid away on a high shelf and then made disappear for good.
Thankfully, the words haven’t disappeared, and I can plant them, harvest their fruit, and share them with you.