“…and she pulls the concerto around her like it is… a sea full of dolphins.”
It wasn’t the sort of thing you typically heard a teacher say in front of a class of second graders. But even while their second grade attention spans were simultaneously distracted with questions like “how many pollywogs are in the fishtank?” and “will Sally notice if I wipe this boogie on her backpack?”… they understood, intuitively, that Mrs. Serrafi was going off the deep end.
It had started after the valentines. The class had been told to celebrate Valentine’s Day by putting paper valentines in the boxes of the other classmates. After that they folded red paper in half and learned how to cut out a big red heart to make a valentine for their parents. After that, Mrs. Serrafi stood up in front of the class and came very close to a breakdown.
Usually when she pushed “play” on the machine, it played a chime and told them to open their workbooks. This time the chime was the aching voice a sustained oboe, which was soon wrapped up in the swelling wave of strings that carried the concerto along in a way that was soft and sweet. As she took a deep breath and began to explain the meaning of Valentine’s Day, her tone was just like the voice she used to explain Groundhog Day a few days earlier. But she seemed distracted. Agitated. Her posture changed and her voice wobbled. Maybe she was distracted by the music, since her eyes closed as she continued speaking: speaking about love, and how impossible it is to describe, and how tragically ephemeral it truly is, how deliciously fleeting. Though she usually addressed the class by reading verbatim from a Teacher’s Guide, this time she had bounced off the rails completely, and had brought a lucid spirit into her second grade classroom that welled up from within her and came out in a manifestation that was a struggle of definition, a challenge of understanding, a deep and furious personal battle of belief.
And so her struggle to describe her thoughts and feelings ended with prose that sounded more like poetry than lesson material.
“…and she pulls the concerto around her like it is… a sea full of dolphins. Playful, healing, beyond words…”
And when Mrs. Serrafi opened her eyes, she looked agast. Where had that come from? What did it mean? Would she get in trouble? Had anyone seen?
The music died with a final gasp of the oboe.
For a moment, the gurgle of the fishtank sounded very loud. There was a rustling of fabric and an uncomfortable cough (there were seventeen pollywogs, and no: Sally didn’t notice). A couple children clapped weakly, because they didn’t know what else to do. It was a Very Uncomfortable Moment.
Then another teacher came to the front of the classroom. It was Mr. Serrafi. He showed Mrs. Serrafi a folder, and whispered to her. He pretended to talk about the folder, but the words he whispered were:
“I love you.”
Leaving his secret in the hollow of her ear, he turned and walked back out of the classroom quickly. He didn’t think everyone had heard.
Mrs. Serrafi’s poetry hadn’t gotten much appreciation right away, but now the scattered clapping crescendoed, swelling up into appreciative applause.
Mrs. Serrafi changed, flustered by the children’s attention. Her lips drew inward as she held back an embarrassed smile. Her gasps came in short busts as she strained against her laugh, eyes tearing up, and her neck and face straining to depict her emotions.
She looked thankful and relieved and very happy.
And that’s how Mrs. Serrafi’s second grade class got their first glimpse of romantic love.