The afternoon heat brings to mind experiences from my past, particularly my childhood in the tropics, when endless possibilities, simple and innocent, lay before me. Just before two in the afternoon, as if drifting in a daydream, I would walk down the tree-lined path of Avenida Hermanas Mirabal, heading to Colegio San Francisco. In the centre of the schoolyard stood a massive tree under which we loved to play. I remember it towering over us, casting a vast shadow that felt like a shield, protecting us from evil and preserving the state of well-being in which we were wrapped.
All of my teachers were terrific. I can’t recall ever disliking any of them.
Lucía was an incredibly awesome brunette, boasting straight black hair and eyes that sparkled like the stars. I was fortunate enough to have her as my first-grade teacher. During the rainstorms that flooded the schoolyard, she would pause our lessons. We would then spend the time crafting small paper boats. We would set them afloat on the waves and watch them disappear into a mysterious abyss that probably transported them to remote and unknown worlds.
Marta’s complexion had a honey-like or caramel tone. She typically wore her hair neatly styled in a bun. Despite what her grumpy expression could indicate—always frowning—she was really kindhearted. Life rewarded me with the joy of having her as my second-grade teacher. She believed I was a dedicated student and sufficiently prepared to advance directly to fourth grade. She took the initiative to persuade the principal—a Franciscan priest from Spain, as many of the priests were back then—to agree to it. As a result, I was able to bypass third grade and get ahead of my peers.
Consuelo, a mother of three, a wife of one, and my beloved fourth-grade teacher, had a face that betrayed the misery of a failed marriage. How could a nine-year-old child possibly understand such complexities? I do know, though, because there is a vivid memory embedded in my mind, a moment when I overheard her speaking with another teacher about the difficult situation she was facing. Her name, which means consolation, offered little comfort.
Chance brought Camila, a plump, short, and very sensual young woman, into my life as my fifth-grade teacher. I say she was sensual because that’s how Miguel, a classmate, taught me to see her. I say that in hindsight, as back then, my vocabulary wasn’t very sophisticated. Miguel spent his day fixated on Camila’s chest and whispering to me. He once remarked that her nipples appeared erect. He said that when a woman’s breasts were this way, it indicated she wanted to have sex with a man. It may sound hard to believe, since we were only ten years old, and already desiring the teacher’s breasts.
As if dreaming of Camila’s nipples wasn’t distracting enough, half-way through fifth grade Clara came along. Colegio San Francisco was exclusively for boys, while Colegio San José, across the street, admitted only girls. Clara’s family had relocated to Santiago from one of the interior provinces in the middle of the school year, and when they did, there was no available spot for her at Colegio San José. Consequently, she was allowed to complete fifth grade with us. Some people are so lucky! In the entire school there was just one girl, and our fifth-grade class had the pleasure of having her. One could imagine that being the only lark among a group of ravens would be a frightening situation for a girl, yet that wasn't true at all. By that time, we hadn’t fully lost our innocence. We cherished her like royalty, making every effort to make her happy and vying for her attention. Her name was premonitory, as Clara was also the name of my first love—the only girl I fell for during high school.
© William Almonte Jiménez, 2015
