Figaro

Figaro

He sat high atop a large puppet tree in the toy store. It was love at first sight. My daughter and I asked the salesperson to retrieve him for us. He was just as charming close-up as he appeared on the puppet tree. He was adorable with his furry green dragon body and lime green Mohawk hair. 

We drove back to our apartment with our new puppet in hand. We listened to the Three Tenors on the CD player as we went home. With her small hand adjusting inside the puppet, my daughter made him come to life and pretended to sing with the CD. We laughed, and because of Mozart and the tenors, we named our new puppet Figaro.  

At the time, I was a new music teacher at a small Catholic school in Oregon. With my daughter’s permission, I enlisted Figaro’s help with my new students. I would need all the support I could find because it was my first full-time teaching position. Figaro was so cute I was confident the children would love him and perhaps make it easier for me to create an exciting classroom experience. I had no way of imagining how important and popular Figaro would become.

To my surprise, the interest in Figaro was instantaneous. First, my eighth-grade girls created a Figaro Fan Club with lapel buttons and hats. Then, one of the mothers made Figaro a school uniform, and another made Figaro a life jacket with little frogs on it when I took him on vacation to Florida. Many of the children made Halloween costumes for him and brought him presents at Christmas time. Figaro especially liked the bottles of wine some of the parents thought he would enjoy. Then, during parent-teacher conferences, when I thought I was communicating professionally with the parents, they would ask to see Figaro. They wanted to meet the puppet their children talked so much about, and I watched with awe when they responded to the little green dragon. Even the school principal had the Figaro frenzy. She boldly suggested that Figaro write an advice column for the school newspaper. When I heard her request, I was shocked.

“Sue,” I exclaimed. “Figaro is a puppet! He’s not real.”

“I know, she replied. “I still think it’s a good idea.”

 I walked back to my classroom from her office and considered my dilemma. Figaro wrote for the school newspaper each month.

One year, I had an especially wild, somewhat immature kindergarten class. The only span of attention that we bridged together was any activity involving Figaro. 

Not having the most outstanding classroom management skills at my command, I became painfully aware that the Figaro fascination was close to being out of control. The plan for Figaro to help with the situation and calm them down was not working out as planned. Therefore, I responsibly decided to remedy the situation.

One Monday morning, my wild, wide-eyed kindergarteners arrived and found me sitting on the floor with Figaro on my lap. They joined me quietly in the circle without hesitation, never taking their eyes off Figaro.

As we settled into place, I calmly explained that our lesson would be about Figaro. I encouraged each child to hold him. They hugged him. They kissed him, and they all made Figaro come to life. While they were playing with Figaro, I talked about how much we love our unique toys and asked them about their toys at home. I explained that we pretend because it’s fun. Our love for our precious toys is real; the toys were not.

I sincerely thought I was getting through to them. For once, I thought we were all on the same page. Perhaps they were experiencing a normal, bittersweet, and growing-up moment. I thought it might feel like what I experienced learning the truth about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

The class got ready to walk back to their homeroom. They seemed unusually subdued and very quiet. I couldn’t read the mood. As they lined up at the door, each child asked to kiss Figaro goodbye. I reassured them that Figaro would still be a special friend and that he would continue to be a part of our classroom experience.

One little boy hesitated and didn’t want to walk back to class. He tugged gently at my skirt. I knelt so I could look into his eyes. He seemed visibly upset to the point of tears. He put his arms around my neck and, with little sobs, asked me the million-dollar question.

“Does Figaro know he’s not real?”

My heart fell. I had failed or succeeded; I wasn't quite sure. I realized that no matter how I responded to this trusting child, I couldn’t change what had happened or convince him Figaro wasn’t real. I reassured him that Figaro was not sad. I didn’t know what to say. My little kindergarten boy kissed Figaro goodbye, told him he loved him, and walked back to class.

On that day, I shut the door and stood alone in my room. The little green puppet I held in my hands was the bearer of intense creativity. He inspired all who met him. I guess, in some unforeseen way, Figaro was the essence of magic. A child’s point of view is important and precious, and I felt the gravity of my responsibility to my new students. In Figaro’s world, he invites us to experience silliness and experience the freedom to use our imaginations. Figaro welcomes everyone into his magical world.   

These days, Figaro still writes an advice column for the newspaper. His point of view is a welcome change, but he remains respectful and always kind. He receives Christmas presents and Halloween costumes. One little girl tried to make some teeth out of small white candies for him. The eighth-grade boys made him an honorary point guard on the basketball team. But, without fail, children's faces still light up when they see him. 

His magic is real, and I learn something from him every day. He is becoming a great teacher.