HATING VALENTINE'S DAY
maybe just felt uneasy.....siixth grade
I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day. Maybe hated is too strong a word. Maybe felt uneasy is more appropriate. It started in school. Maybe sixth grade. We had colored paper, scissors, and an infinity of doilies that peeled off a single stack. We had snow falling in the dark outside the windows. We had the good kind of paste, library paste, which I ate when nobody was looking. The school radiators clanked and hissed. The room smelled of varnish and steam. Our scissors were blunt and the stakes were high. How many valentines would we get back?
But we peeled and pasted and cut and wrote to our parents, “Be My Valentine.”
Store-bought valentines were what we gave one another—you got 100 in a cellophane bag for 25 cents. They were flimsy and forgettable, not even as sturdy as leaves, but it was important to count how many you got. Back then, I liked a boy who sat two rows ahead of me, but I was too shy to sign the card I left on his desk. I used to draw his profile day after day during spelling and even now the curve of his cheekbone sticks in my memory. I think now we both were outside the swirl—observers, not participants—although I could never have put that into words back then. He seemed lonely and kind. His name might have been Dan.
We were asked to buy an inexpensive present for the valentine’s day grab bag. And I bought ink. I had spent a lot of time in the stationery store unscrewing all the caps and staring into the bottles of deep color. Green, red, black, blue. I would smell them, being careful not to get ink on my nose. I wrapped the smooth round bottle in tissue paper and placed it as carefully as an egg, among the other gifts. Then I waited proudly for someone to choose it. Finally a boy ripped the paper off and immediately began to wail, “Who bought this?”
I am happy to say later I stole it back.
So pleased, whenever I see you appear in my inbox. I read this one, greedily, a few times.
Brilliant. You've described everything perfectly from the clanking radiators to handling the ink bottle like a precious egg. I remember those cheap-assed cards too in a bag, every one of them totally meaningless. A boy I liked (Harold?) once collected a few rhinestones from some unknown source and left them in a tiny, glittery pyramid on my desk, like so many diamonds. THAT was class, when you're only seven ...
I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day too. First for myself and my peers, and then as a teacher. My heart ached for the pain it caused tender souls. It’s a stupid day, really. Thank you for this snippet. I agree with Sue above - it is a treat every time there is a new post from you. Each its own special gift.