Shadows in the Classroom

Shadows in the Classroom

Looking at the box of crayons on the coffee table, I knew it was time to have the conversation.

"Come, Sarah, I have a story to tell you." I cleared the back-to-school shopping bags off the couch, making room for my granddaughter to sit next to me.

“Mom! We talked about this. We agreed not to,” my daughter said, a hint of anxiety creeping into her voice.

“Abigail, don’t interrupt your mother,” I reprimanded. “Come, little one, let your grandmother tell you the story.”

Sarah abandoned her bag of art supplies and joined me on the couch.

“Tell me, Grandma, tell me your story.” She snuggled close to me.

Putting my arm around the little girl, I held her tightly. “When I was in fourth grade,” I began.

“Just like me, Grandma! I’m starting fourth grade tomorrow!”

“Yes, my love, just like you,” I said, tucking her soft curls behind her ear, marveling at her dark brown eyes so reminiscent of her mother’s and my own.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get dinner ready.” Abigail turned towards the kitchen. Moments later, the angry clatter of dishes under running water began. She was upset with me, but I felt confident in my decision. It was important that Sarah became aware of what would inevitably cross her path.

“When I was in fourth grade we didn’t have cell phones,” I began with the hook that I had practiced, hoping to get her attention. And it worked, I noticed, as her eyes widened.

“How did you text your friends?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, we passed notes.”

“Notes?”

“Yes, we wrote secret messages. I used crayons just like those,” I motioned to the yellow box in front of us. “Then we folded our notes into tiny triangles and passed them from friend to friend across the classroom.”

“That sounds like fun, Grandma!”

“Yes, it was fun.” I paused, took a deep breath, and continued, “One day I received a note that I’ll never forget.”

“What did it say?”

I glanced toward the kitchen, seeing my daughter’s thin frame at the sink. The sound of the clatter had stopped, leaving behind a silence that hung heavily in the air.

~

The note simply said JB.

What was JB? I had no idea. I looked around the classroom, trying to solve the mystery.

Did I ask someone? Perhaps I leaned close to the child next to me and whispered the question in her ear. That part of the story escaped me. I did remember quite vividly when the meaning became clear.

Jew Bastard

In that moment my world tilted. A door I hadn't known existed silently opened, allowing an entity in. There was no turning back as the darkness seeped in, swirling through the primary colors. Suddenly there were shadows in the classroom.

I thought about retaliating, sending back a note with initials for her eyes and soul. I wanted to. I didn’t.

Searching the faces surrounding me, I expected a rally of defense and consolation. I was met with silence, not the sharp silence of shock, but rather the dull silence of indifference. These were the girls who came to my house after school for milk and cookies. We sat cross-legged chanting Miss Mary Mack while clapping our hands together and falling into fits of giggles. Looking from face to face, I realized I was the only Jewish student in my class. I was alone.

This note became my secret.

I didn’t tell my mother as she lit the Shabbos candles. “Baruch atah Adonai,” she recited to the dancing flames as my mind wandered back to that hateful message.

I didn’t tell my grandparents, who held my hand and spoke Yiddish to me in their tiny Bronx apartment. Black and white photos of my ancestors stared at me unsmiling from their frames. They knew my secret but were unable to comfort me.

I didn’t write about my feelings as I sat under the apple tree staring at the empty pages of my diary. The short stories and rhyming words that had flowed so joyously were suddenly of no interest.

The note was hurtful, but worse than that, it was evil. It changed my life, popping a bubble of innocence. I didn’t inflict that pain on those I loved, but instead felt the need to protect them.

~

I sat unmoving on the couch while my granddaughter waited for me to continue. Her little face was so full of innocence that it made my heart ache. I took her small hand in my own and squeezed it tightly. Abigail still hadn’t moved, her head bowed down, her shoulders hunched as she clutched the edge of the sink.

“Tell me, Grandma, what’s JB?” Sarah asked, startling me, alerting me that I had spoken the message out loud. Her childish voice repeating those initials stirred up emotions, making my stomach clench and my heart race. Evil was once again knocking at the door, but this time it was I who extended the invitation.

I looked intently at my granddaughter, her eyes so clear and inquisitive. My gaze shifted to the shiny new backpack carefully labeled with her name and classroom number. Glitter and glue sticks sat ready for packing along with the crayons and markers. My resolve to continue crumbled with shame.

Abigail was right, it wasn’t time. Not yet.

“Well, JB was,” I floundered, flustered. I had no backup plan. My mind spun crazily trying to fill in the blanks. I felt a sense of panic rise as Sarah looked at me with confusion.

“Jelly beans! Can you believe that?” The words that saved me floated in as Abigail appeared in the doorway holding a dish towel. Her eyes met mine, filled with relief, and a smile played around her lips.

“Jelly beans?” Sarah shrieked delightedly in the way that only little girls can.

"Yes! Jelly beans!" The sound of my laughter bubbling over surprised me, filling me with joy. “We all loved jelly beans in fourth grade!”

I winked at my daughter, my best friend, the only one who knew my story. I was grateful for her wisdom and conviction, which reminded me to enjoy life’s vibrant colors before the shadows entered the room.