Why I Will Absolutely Always Love My First Grade Teacher

I just found out from her niece that my first grade teacher passed away a while back. We used to write each other for some time, but between one thing and another, we stopped doing that. She kept abreast of my life through Mami (my maternal grandmother) and I did the same.

After Mami’s health made it impossible for her to live on her own in my childhood home, my uncle bought her a little house near her sister on the northeastern coast of the island—a couple of hours away. So my connection to the old neighborhood was gone.

I am surprised that I did not see any mention of it on Facebook as I am still friendly with some folks I attended elementary school with (though to be fair, I don’t follow them all and I may have missed it). Of course, it is more likely that I saw it and couldn’t deal with it and just went into instant denial. I do that sometimes where death is concerned…

Mrs. Rosario scared me a little bit when I was little—but I suspect my grandmother had more to do with it than my teacher did. The fact is that she was lovely to me. She did not treat me any differently because I had an Indian first name, an Irish last name, and a Scottish maternal surname. In fact, she let me mentor the New York kids (we got two that year, at different times). She was strict and she did not let me get away with anything—but that’s the way she managed her classroom in general.

She lived six houses away from ours. She used to have a capuchin monkey I used to play volleyball with, along with their youngest daughter who was a year or two younger than I. Her husband was the sweetest man. But I was terrified of him. He was a policeman, and my grandmother—in her infinite wisdom— told me that if I misbehaved the cops would come get me, throw me in the trunk of their car, and only god knows what would happen to me, but I would likely never be seen again. Sometimes, after I was allowed to walk to school by myself, he’d be driving out to take their youngest to school and he, ever the good neighbor, would offer me a ride. I wouldn’t even talk to him. Honestly, I couldn’t! I’d stop on my tracks, back up if he came closer, and vigorously shake my head. Not even a thank you, I did not want to chance being misunderstood.

When I went to Puerto Rico the last time, in 2001, Mami told me Doña Carmen had been asking after me and I should go visit her. I took Mom with me and introduced everybody. We sat chatting for a while, had some beverages, and she brought out some of her poetry notebooks and let me read through them. I was very touched by this gesture.

But the most touching gesture, one I will never forget, came when I was her student. That spring, at Easter, I had an accident. The less said about it, the better. Suffice to say I impaled myself on a fence and was touch and go for about a week, because the doctors were not sure if I was bleeding internally and it was impossible to assess the full damage until the inflammation subsided. Because of this, as well as my kidney problems, the consensus was that they would not transport me to the medical center in San Juan.

At the time, Bayamon did not have a general hospital but we had a dispensary and a maternity ward. Given the choices, they kept me in the maternity ward—which angered the hell out of the head nurse who apparently hated children, but that’s another story.

I was bedridden for weeks and stayed in the ward for about a month or so. They kept me pretty much sedated for the first week. Mrs. Rosario did not want to set me back unless it was absolutely necessary, and she created lessons for me and even came to our house to help me catch up. But before I relearned to walk and was sent back home, my teacher arranged for a field trip for my classmates. They were not allowed in the ward, but she managed to get them downtown and across the street from my hospital room window so they could wave at me.

It was this gesture that ignited a fierce loyalty for the woman, so that when one of older girls started bullying Ivy (Mrs. Rosario’s kid), I told the girl to pick on someone her own size. The girl was way bigger than me and she pushed me, I pushed her back, she back handed me and chipped my tooth. There was blood. And I lost it. I wailed on her ass and it took three adults to get me off her.

The kid and I weren’t really close—though we played with the capuchin together. But I felt sufficient kinship because her mother had shown me extraordinary kindness. Years later, when Mrs. Rosario would watch over her grandson, the boy and I had a courtship that included some loving on my way to school and on my way back (if he was still there).

I know I’m rambling but I am a little broken because I feel guilty that I did not make a bigger effort to try to stay in touch. I am grateful to have had her in my life, and even more grateful that she offered me her trust and friendship as an adult. I hope she knew that I loved her and that she’ll always have a bit of my heart because of what she did for me.