lucky day

On Tuesday mornings, I volunteer in Winston’s classroom. Typically, I work individually on reading skills with a handful of learners. Sometimes Ms B has a project that needs extra help, so I lend a hand with tasks such as checking in math homework or tracing geometric patterns that resemble Moroccan tiles onto paper plates, which is what I did last week.

For the past few weeks, when I entered the blue atrium—the large common area around which the five first-grade classrooms are arranged—a group of sixth grade girls have been receiving Indonesian dance lessons. Now, I’m all for cultural exchange, but the music was haunting (to my untrained Western ears), and I had to negotiate my way through a swarm of twelve-year-old girls. Today, I was relieved that the soundtrack for a Wes Craven movie was noticeably absent and confidently entered the atrium to see, instead, three of the first grade classes sitting on the floor—okay, most were flopping on the floor, like bacon frying in a pan. Also, chairs had been arranged for parents. Wading through the layers of confusion, I realized I’d missed a note from the teacher, saying there was an event for parents to attend.

I really hate when that happens.

I took a seat and settled in to watch a “talent show.” Basically, twenty or so kids performed. Some played musical instruments—violin, piano, cello. Others danced or did tumbling. Two kids did magic tricks. A few boys told jokes, the likes of which you’d expect—“Why did Tigger lift the toilet seat? He was looking for Pooh”—but were expertly executed and pretty funny.

Most of the performances were agonizingly awful, which is as it should be. These kids are just starting to learn their forte. Still, I get verklempt whenever I go to school programs. It’s not difficult for me to start feeling nostalgic about singing in elementary school chorus concerts, dancing in ballet recitals, or playing violin in concerts or for the school musical’s pit orchestra. All the emotions are present—the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, the exhilaration of successfully hitting that part of the piece that we never managed to in practice, the relief when the last note was played. The bravery of those six- and seven-year-olds, standing before their peers, who can be pretty judgmental even at this young age, was not lost on me, as I discreetly caught tears escaping the corners of my eye. Ultimately, I found the whole performance, well, uplifting.

Winston did not perform, and when I asked him about the program, he said he didn’t have any talent. My goal before the next performance date is to help him find his talent—teach him a song on the recorder or how to do a sun salutation, anything that he can share.

Before I left the school building, I had a date with the Lost and Found. A few weeks ago, we bought Winston a new pair of trail runners, which he lost on the very first day he took them to school. Digging through the extra-large Rubbermaid bins, grossed out by the piles of limp sweatshirts, dirty socks, and stiff mittens and hats from last winter, I pulled out the first hard item my hand struck. Lo and behold, a size 11, greenish-brown Merrill shoe, and then another. What was lost is found!

Then, because we can’t have too many strokes of luck in the day, I got sick from eating a marginal leftovers. No, I am, lucky—John made sure I was allowed to recuperate, while fixing dinner and taking care of the boys.

A lucky day, even in unexpected ways!