by Phillip Done
John didn’t speak. Only nodded.
Esther grinned. “I’ll let Santa know.”
I glanced down at my watch. It was time to go. “Okay, kids, I’m afraid it’s time we start heading back. Say good-bye.” The room was filled with good-byes and waves as the children lined up to leave. The moms collected the kids’ coats and hats, and we walked out of the hall. As we gathered in the lobby, I counted heads to make sure everyone was there. I was short one child.
“Who’s missing?” I asked the class.
The kids looked around.
“Danny,” several answered.
I walked back into the hall. Danny was talking to Esther.
“Hey, Danny, come on,” I called. “We’re leaving.”
Smiles were exchanged. Esther’s gaze followed Danny up the aisle as he raced to join the rest of us. Danny met me in the lobby.
“What were you two talking about?” I asked.
“I told her what I wanted for Christmas,” he replied, breathing heavily.
“Why?”
“Mr. Done, didn’t you hear?… She knows Santa Claus!”
THE BELL
A small silver bell sits on my desk at school. It’s nothing fancy. But it means a lot to me. It was a gift from my Grandma Vie when I first started teaching. She said that every teacher should have one. My students call it Grandma Vie’s bell. Occasionally when the bell is looking tarnished, I’ll pull out some silver cream and clean it up in front of my students. And when I do, I make the same speech: “School is a lot like silver cream. It polishes us up.”
Sometimes I’ll let a child ring Grandma Vie’s bell. This afternoon when it was time for Show and Tell, I chose Joshua to give the bell a shake, then asked everyone to get ready for sharing.
As Joshua set the bell back on my desk, I asked him if he had ever seen It’s a Wonderful Life.
He shook his head.
“You should see it,” I suggested. “There’s a famous line in the film.” I paused to remember it just right. “‘Teacher says every time a bell rings — an angel gets his wings.’”
Joshua thought about this for a moment. “What does he have to do to get ’em?”
“Well,” I said, “I imagine that the angel has to do something good — to prove that he is worthy of earning his new wings.”
Then we started Show and Tell. After Angela shared a miniature Statue of Liberty that her dad had brought her from New York, Kevin showed us his molted rattlesnake skin, and Robbie played “Chopsticks” on the piano, I called on Joshua. He reached under his desk, pulled out a shoe box, and walked up to the front of the classroom.
I cleared a spot on my desk. “What do you have for us today?”
Joshua set the box down. As he lifted the lid, the children leaned forward to get a better look. The kids in the back row stood.
The box was full of small bundles wrapped in paper towels. Joshua pulled one of them out, unwrapped it, and set a ceramic figurine on my desk. It was a lamb, no more than two inches high. Then he unwrapped a wise man.
My eyes widened. Uh-oh. He brought a Nativity set to school.
Soon the desk was covered with sheep and camels and donkeys and two more wise men. Baby Jesus and his family sat on my desk, too. I shifted in my seat. I had read about teachers getting into trouble for such things. When he finished unwrapping all the pieces, I said, “Thank you for bringing these in, Joshua. It’s very nice.” Then I turned to the class. “Okay. Who’s next?”
“Wait,” Joshua stopped me. “I’m not done yet.”
I felt my jaw clench.
Then like Linus in A Charlie Brown Christmas, Joshua began telling the Christmas story. He picked up Mary and Joseph and moved them across my correcting basket to Bethlehem. The shepherds marched on top of my piles to the inn. He led the wise men over my lesson plan book to the manger. His classmates listened closely. Joshua knew the story well.
As he spoke, I sat quietly in my chair with my arms crossed, nibbling the end of my pen. Thoughts were firing in my head. What if my boss walks in? What if one of my students goes home and says that I taught the Christmas story in class? Didn’t teachers go to court for this? Finally, Joshua started collecting the figurines. I helped him gather them up.
“Thank you for bringing this in,” I told him.
Then Joshua turned to me. “Can I pass them around?”
I inhaled sharply. Pass them around? At school? Now? Of course I had to let him. I always let my students pass around their sharing. I’ve never said no — not even when Alisha brought in her tarantula. I took a deep breath and let it out like a leaky balloon. “Sure.”
Soon Mary, Joseph, and all the rest were being passed down the rows. Brian made sheep sounds each time he handed one off. I kept an eye on the door as my fingers drummed on my desk. After everyone had a chance to hold the pieces, Joshua collected them in his box and walked to the back of the room. He started arranging the figures on the back counter.
“Joshua,” I called out, “what are you doing?”
“I’m Student of the Week.”
I stared at him — unable to blink. He was right. He was Student of the Week. And the Student of the Week gets to display whatever he brings from home on the counter in front of the Student of the Week bulletin board. And these things stay on the counter for five days. What if a parent sees the Nativity? How will I explain this?
“Can I share next?” Rebecca shouted.
I turned to her. “Huh?… oh yes… of course.”
Rebecca walked up to the front with a photo album. As she turned the pages, my eyes shifted to the back of the room. Josh was almost finished setting up the crèche. I heaved another sigh. You know, I thought, this is his sharing. This boy is entitled to share whatever he wants. He’s not doing anything wrong here. Phil, calm down.
Soon Rebecca finished and Joshua walked up to me. “Can I go outside and get some grass?”
“Why?”
“For the sheep.”
“What for?”
“To sit in.”
I rubbed the back of my neck and smiled. “Why not?”
After Show and Tell was over, it was time for math. The kids took out their practice books and began solving the problems I had put on the board. I glanced over at the crèche spread out on the counter in full view for all to see. Then I looked over at Joshua. He was quite a kid. I respected him — his faith, his honesty, his innocence, his lack of fear. Hopefully, he would never lose these qualities. Maybe someday, privately, I would tell him that the shepherds in my own crèche at home look like his.
Just then I spotted the silver bell sitting on my desk beside the pencil can. I picked it up, walked over to Joshua’s desk, and knelt down beside him. Softly, I tinkled the bell next to his ear. He turned toward me with a surprised expression.
“Why are you ringing Grandma Vie’s bell?” he whispered.
I looked into his eyes and smiled. “Remember that line from the movie I told you about? ‘Teacher says every time a bell rings — an angel gets its wings.’” He nodded. “Well…” I tapped him on the nose. “… I know one little angel who just earned his.”
GIFTS
At my school the teachers affectionately call the week before winter break — Mug Week. This is when we all add to our World’s Greatest Teacher coffee cup collections. At last count I think I have thirty-seven. I figure by the time I retire, I will have a different mug for each day of the year.
One Mug Week, I was sitting around the table in the staff room eating lunch with my colleagues.
“Lisa, what are you doing this weekend?” I asked.
She sighed. “Unwrapping Christmas presents.”
“Unwrapping?” I said, confused. “What do you mean?”
Lisa gave a fake smile. “Well, I have to remove the packaging from my kids’ presents before I wrap them. If I don’t, they’ll be crying on Christmas morning because Mommy can’t get Barbie’s car out of the box.”
I laughed.
/> “I know just what you mean,” Sandy chipped in. “I spent twenty minutes at my son’s birthday party trying to free his Deluxe Tool Kit. By the time I got it all out, my camera batteries were dead.”
Just then Kim walked in and put her hands on her hips. “Guess what I just got from one of my kids.”
“A mug rack?” Lisa guessed.
“Nope,” Kim said. She held up her new gift. “One earring.”
“Ha!” I whooped. “Just one?”
Kim smiled. “My aide got the other one.”
Everyone laughed.
“I can top that,” Dawn added. “I got a box of cereal once.”
We all stopped eating. “Cereal?”
“Why did you get that?” Joan asked.
Dawn shrugged. “They said they liked the recipe on the box.”
Kim let out a loud guffaw.
“That’s it!” Lisa declared. “I’m getting my son’s teacher a box of Grape-Nuts.”
Sniggers followed. Sandy had to breathe deeply through her nose because her mouth was full of sandwich.
“You all know my Sanjeev, right?” Joan said, unscrewing the lid on her thermos. “His parents are both from India. Well, he gave me a pretty little wooden box. I said to him, ‘Sanjeev, is this from India?’ He said, ‘No, it’s from The Dollar Store.’”
I cut through the chuckles. “Men are lucky. We don’t get wooden boxes and jewelry.” I reached down and held up my Rudolph tie. “We get designer ties like this instead.” I pushed his nose. Burl Ives started singing.
“Okay, you guys,” Kim began while opening her lunch bag, “what is the most memorable teacher gift you ever received?”
Sandy spoke first. “Mine was a bottle of perfume. From Donald.”
“That’s nice,” Lisa said.
Sandy made an exaggerated grin. “When I thanked him he said, ‘It’s free. My mom works at Avon.’”
“Mine was a mug,” Dawn tossed out.
“What else did you expect?” I said.
Dawn turned to me and smiled. “It said ‘Happy St. Patrick’s Day.’”
We enjoyed another laugh. Then Kim raised her Diet Pepsi and announced, “To Mug Week!” We all raised whatever we were drinking and cheered along with her. “To Mug Week!”
* * *
I remember the very first teacher gift I ever gave. I was in kindergarten. My teacher’s name was Miss Brooks — just like the TV show. My mom had decorated a white lunch bag and filled it with goodies for the teacher: pens, rubber stamps, an inkpad, and some candy. Well, I added some goodies of my own to the bag when my mom wasn’t looking. The next day when Miss Brooks opened her present, she found two snowman candles with their heads melted off, half a can of mixed nuts, and a pork chop wrapped in aluminum foil.
Starting in first grade, I always gave my teacher a box of Whitman’s chocolates. (Mom was done with goody bags.) I’d wrap the yellow box up all by myself. The week before break, I’d slip it on my teacher’s desk when she wasn’t looking and wait for her to open it up at the Christmas party. Whenever she reached for a present, I’d hold my breath, hoping it would be mine. At last, she’d select my gift, read the tag, and look for me among the students. One of the best parts of giving a present is when the person you love smiles at you just before opening your gift.
Every teacher I ever had in elementary school opened up Christmas presents the exact same way. First, she’d set the gift in her lap and admire the wrapping paper. Next, she’d ask if I wrapped it myself and, if I did, tell me what a nice job I had done. Then she’d untie the ribbon, remove the bow, and set them in a bow-and-ribbon pile. (Teachers love to sort.) After that she’d turn the package upside down and run her fingernail under the tape so as not to rip the paper. (Teachers do not rip paper.) Sometimes she’d do all this while talking to the class. (Teachers do not like dead space.) And sometimes she’d make silly guesses so we would laugh. Of course she would always open her gifts slowly. Teachers know that the slower they unwrap their presents — the longer a child feels the reward of giving.
Eventually, she would pull the paper away in one piece, put her hand on her chest, and say, “Chocolates!” in such a way that I knew a box of Whitman’s was exactly what she was hoping to get for Christmas. Finally, she’d smile and say, “Phillip, are you trying to make me fat?” Everyone would giggle. The other kids would beg her to share the candies. But she wouldn’t. She’d hug the box and say, “No, they’re all mine.”
Some of my most memorable gifts revolve around candy, too. Once I had a student named Andrea who gave me a box of See’s candy. I didn’t open it. When I got home, I put the white box in the freezer. I already had enough sweets around the house. A couple of months later, I was looking for something to eat. I opened the freezer and spotted the box of See’s. So I pulled it out and opened it up. Inside was a tie.
Another year I received a fancy box of chocolates from a student named Patty. I decided to share them with my students, so I walked around the room and let each child take a piece. After a few moments, I heard a child shout, “Yuck!” “These are rotten!” another screamed. Pretty soon everyone was spitting out the chocolates. Quickly I grabbed the lid and read it. They were full of cognac.
If I had to pick one Christmas gift that touched me the most, it would have to be Henry’s. I hang it on my Christmas tree every year. On a high branch. In the front.
It was the day before winter break several years ago. All week long, the kids had been begging me to unwrap my gifts. I wasn’t planning to open them at school, but they persisted. So at the Christmas party, I gathered my students around my desk and opened their presents. I unwrapped each gift slowly. I made one pile for wrapping paper and another for ribbons and bows.
After the party it was time for lunch. I was on lunch duty in the cafeteria. As I walked down the center aisle, I stopped at the table where my students were sitting. The girls sat with the girls. The boys sat with the boys. I spotted Henry sitting quietly at the end of the table. He didn’t have a lunch.
“Why aren’t you eating lunch today?” I asked.
Henry lowered his head.
“Did you forget to bring it?”
He didn’t answer.
I whispered in his ear. “Would you like the cafeteria lady to make you a peanut butter sandwich?”
He shook his head.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Okay.” Then I patted his buzz cut and walked on.
As I stepped away I glanced back. Henry was generally a lively child — but today he looked like something was on his mind. Perhaps my opening the gifts had made him sad. Henry hadn’t given me one. Of course I didn’t expect anything. I felt bad for opening them.
After lunch we began silent reading. The children grabbed their books and scattered around the room to read. All was quiet except for the sound of the bunny drinking from the water bottle. As I circled the room, I noticed Henry hiding behind the piano. A pair of scissors and the tape dispenser lay on the floor beside him. When Henry saw me, he put his hands behind his back. I pretended not to notice and walked on. He was probably making me something for Christmas. Cute. I let silent reading time go a little longer than usual to give him time to finish. Finally, I clapped my hands. “Okay, boys and girls, nice reading. Please put your books away. Back to your seats.”
As the children moved to their chairs, Henry walked up to mine and placed a thin package on my desk. It was wrapped with binder paper, decorated with Magic Marker, and sealed with masking tape.
“What’s this?” I said, acting surprised.
He looked down. I could see him smiling. Then I set the gift on my lap.
“Did you wrap this yourself?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said softly.
“You’re a really good wrapper.”
His dimples grew deeper.
Carefully, I untaped the binder paper and pulled out a card. It was made of red construction paper. The fold was creased multiple
times where he had tried to get it just right. On the cover it said, “Merry Crismas Mr. Done” in his best cursive. He had drawn a smiley face in the o.
“It’s beautiful!” I gushed. “Thank you.”
Then I opened it. A surge of warmth filled my chest. Taped on the inside were eight quarters, four dimes, four nickels, and fifteen pennies — $2.75 — the price of one school lunch.
WRAPPING PAPER
We all have Christmas memories that are forever imprinted in our minds. We just need close our eyes and instantly we’re back in time. I have many such memories: reading all the tags with a flashlight on Christmas morning while my grandma snored on the couch, singing Christmas carols to my mom at my own front door then asking for a quarter when I was finished, listening to my dad climb the roof on Christmas Eve to be Santa and hearing him swear when he slipped, and playing the innkeeper in the Christmas pageant at church. I wanted to be Joseph, but my Sunday school teacher wouldn’t trust me with the part. At one rehearsal when Mary and Joseph arrived at the inn, I said, “We have lots of room. Come on in!” Now you see why I wasn’t Joseph.
Of all my Christmas memories, there is one that stands out among the rest. It happened in Hungary. I was on leave from my job in the States teaching at the American International School in Budapest. The week before Christmas vacation, the Boy Scouts from my school were going to throw a party at an orphanage where the children were all preschool age and had hearing disabilities. My colleague Hank asked me to help him chaperone. Hank was the Scout leader. Since several of my own students were in the troop, I agreed to go along.
As we drove to the orphanage, Hank explained that our visiting was a big deal. Because the children were so young and hearing-impaired, the orphanage didn’t let just anyone visit. In fact, our Scouts were one of the first groups of foreigners the orphans would meet. When we arrived, Hank drove the van through a rusted iron gate into a large courtyard. Gravel and snow crunched under our tires. Giant pines weighted down with snow hid the sky. The building was large and gray. It looked unloved. There were no lights on save for one bulb without its shade illuminating three broken steps at the entrance.