My mother
texted me this morning.
3rd
grade. 4th grade. Her captions read.
Old report
cards, she said.
And then
there was another.
“Yash shows interest and curiosity in all
areas of her learning. She is organised. Yash works and plays cooperatively
with others. She shows leadership and helps others. Next steps for Yash is to
continue reading and writing stories to explore her imagination.”
Below this
document, about 18 years old
Was a
signature
In that
classic North American crawl
M Matusoff
My mother
said she wanted to email this
M Matusoff
I told her
she did not know
M Matusoff
‘s first
name.
M Matusoff
A Ms
prefixed to her name
At an age
where
Ms/Mz/Miss
Were all the
same
M Matusoff
Who didn’t teach
me
A-B-C or
1-2-3
But walked
into class that first day
To a host of
little
People
On a carpet,
blue
With a flip
board, white checkered paper
And a
marker, black I think
And told us
this
My name is
Ms. Matusoff
It has three small words in it.
Can anyone tell me what?
Mat-us-off,
she got us
to chorus
But the ‘us’ is pronounced
With a double-o
Like ‘moo’
Or ‘coo’
Now who knows what
‘coo’ means?
Or why ‘pronouce’ is
Such a difficult word to
Pronounce?
Ms. Matusoff tried to
pronounce my name as well.
Yaash-aas-weenee will take the attendance
today, she’d say.
Until I told
her I was not
Yaash-aas-wee-nee but
Yashasvini.
Like they
say in India, I told her.
She decided Yash was good enough.
It rhymed
with rash.
Ms Matusoff told us stories.
I remember
one from
One of those
last days.
There was a
lady with a cookie tray
1-2-3-4
cookies in a row
1-2-3 rows
Ms Matusoff
told us this was
A big word
No, not cookies, she said.
Multiplication.
4 cookies times 3 rows.
Count them all, she said.
1-2-3-4-5-6
7-8-9-10-11-12
12 we
chorused
All us
little people.
And I learnt
three times four was?
Twelve.
(Not three
fours are, mind you. Or three into four is.
But three
times four.)
Ms Matusoff got us to do
Projects
(with a
capital P, like all big words ought)
Mine was on
volcanoes.
I used
plasticine like a
Big girl!
She invited
the principal
(I don’t
know her name)
And they all
clapped for me.
I remember I
looked at
Ms Matusoff
To see if
she was proud
And she
nodded at me.
Ms Matusoff gave me a
big fat blue
book.
Advanced Math, she told me.
(Not Maths,
just Math.)
And when she
taught everyone
three times
four
all over
again
I sat on a
desk
on a blue
plastic chair
and worked
through this
Big Fat Blue
Book
until she
told my Amma
I was good at my work.
Ms Matusoff
didn’t teach
me
A-B-C or
1-2-3 though
That was
Mrs. Shade.
Mrs. Shade
with her
old wrinkled
skin
her soft
touch
her
sandboxes and
stencilled
letters.
Mrs. Shade
who
taught us to
make
sandcastles and
Halloween masks
and
Mother’s Day
soap.
Mrs. Shade who
asked me why
I
never told
her
you got a baby brother!
Who
whispered to my
Amma to make
sure I was
really okay.
Mrs. Shade who
taught me to
roll up your mat,
set your own table,
always take a napkin when you serve food.
Mrs. Shade
who
asked me if
I would like
to use purple or blue
food colouring for
Father’s Day?
Mrs. Shade who
was so
everything-we-needed
that we never
for once
wondered
who was Mr.
Shade?
Mrs. Shade who
fell sick
one day
and needed
an ambulance
so that
every time
for years
after
when that
scary siren swung by
I would tell
my Amma
maybe Mrs.
Shade is inside?
The next
year
there were
two of them.
Ms. Miller,
she was
A big lady,
she was
who taught
us
‘hug’ before
‘fat’
who never
let us
leave the
school
without sitting
in the corridor
to wrap us
up tight
Like a present, she’d say
Who told us her name
Robin, like the bird
and then
taught us
five-year-olds
all about
robins.
Ms. Miller who
I imagine in
Black pants,
black shirt,
her long
black hair always
worn down,
like a curtain.
With her was
Ms. Camilla
Fourino-Vierra.
I still don’t
know
if I spell
that right
but I can
hear her voice,
the words
tumbling off
her tongue
as
she told us
her story.
From Mexico,
I think?
Not from here, she said.
I remember her in browns -
a beige
dress that
didn’t quite
hit her ankles
with brown
flowers
and brown
eyes
and brown
hair
and a soft,
lilting voice
talking to a
group of
my own mini-United Nations kids
she told us,
long before
we knew
UNICEF from
UNESCO.
I think Ms. Vierra
fell sick
too
I am not
that sure
but I do
know
how she
treated
that Chinese
boy
who did not
know
English, to
speak
You must help him
You must teach him
If you teach well, he will learn well.
That day, I
must have been sitting next to
Hyra, from
Pakistan
or Naureen
or Shazma or Pritita
or maybe
Jackie, of Malaysian blood
I don’t
remember.
And we all
nodded.
Yes, Ms.
Vierra.
I do
remember what
Ms. Vierra
said though
of work ethik
and res-pon-si-bi-li-ti
at an age
when
only phonetics
made sense
I do
remember what
Ms. Miller
taught though
of body
positivity and acceptance
at an age
when
her hugs
spoke the language of
recess and
cold winter afternoons
and space
for allllll of you.
I do
remember what
Mrs. Shade
showed us though
How to roll
mats and
how to serve
cake and
how to make presents
from scratch.
Effort is love is effort
at an age
when
I never
realised
My Amma
never used the
bath salts I
gave her
(She saved
them
In cupboards
out of my reach.)
My mother is
still texting me.
This morning
is filled with
the language
of adults -
nostalgia,
she says,
upbringing and
growth.
But for me
this morning
is all about
the Small Brown
Girl
who sat in
classrooms
far away -
a confused
desi-NRI cross
(before coconuts
became fashionable)
who didn’t realise
the lessons
coming her way
in the spaces
in between.
For me -
the
not-so-Small Brown Girl -
this morning
is all about
Mrs. Shade
and
Ms. Miller
and
Ms. Vierra
and
Ms. Matusoff
with two o’s.
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