Our classroom was cramped; tiny and not designed for 30 students. It actually was an apartment for the overseer attached to the girls’ dormitory. We were the overflow at another government boarding school that ran out of space for us. While the new school was being constructed at Shonto for us, we were guests at Leupp School. That was a hard year. This was 1962. I spent my second grade in the girls’ dormitory and called it a classroom.
At a long table we worked diligently and quietly, an occasional sniffling and rustlings of paper was the only sound breaking the silence as our teacher strode up and down peering over our shoulders making sure we were keeping our hands busy. My friend, Grey, a sheep camp neighbor back home was a competitor today as he guided his safety scissor around another heart-shaped cut out. We were all making Valentine cards as elaborately as we knew how.
Naturally, as a Northern Dineh’ a sense of competitiveness came easy. Red hearts took shape in our small hands. I adorned mine with a ruffle-laced edge and silver foils over the top. Grey’s heart was elegant and spared fanciness. Beaming small faces handed over to the teacher their hearts as the bell rang for another day. We all looked forward to these cut-and-paste craft times, a respite from math and such. It was a warm task to work with brightness. The next day was hearts day and we would eat little heart candies again just like the year before. I was happy with my creation as I am sure others were.
The next day came and it was Valentine’s Day. There was something different this year. There were little candies and random hearts that were given us. Someone’s lazy work I drew from a basket. We were to present our hearts to a girl we may or may not know. The girls’ names were already chosen and assigned us.
I barely knew Mary though we were from the same area back home. We got along and occasionally played out in the sage flats. Mary did not know what was coming in the form of a card. The other girls on the list were just as innocent. We were made to write something loving inside these cards. “Mary, will you be my Valentine always,” was scribbled in my heart-shaped card. We were second graders and we didn’t take these kinds of things well. Before this, a Valentine was just heart-shaped candy and cute rainbow stuff.
Most all of our “girls” were at the main classrooms in a large squat concrete building across a dirt yard. Grey and I were to take our hearts to the girls, which meant interrupting the class works. Needless to say, we moseyed, but the cold, dry wind of February kept us moving with the occasional tumbleweed seeming to taunt us. We walked the long, spare hallways looking for the second grade pod. We had separate delivery so I was left alone to carry out this very embarrassing and painful mission. I found the classroom after much hoping there was no such place.
Adjusting my pants and running my hand over my shaved head, I swallowed my pride and with great apprehension, I knocked on the classroom door. I strode across the classroom to where Mary sat, unaware. The whole classroom giggled and poor Mary burst into tears at this humiliation. I choked back mine and quickly left the school building. In the blinding dust storm outside, the storm inside me rose. My whole classroom of second graders had to do this and I wonder what their stories are. Taunts of the dorm mates were ceaseless and hurtful. The teasings did not stop even when we were back in our new school.
I feel that Mary could have been a friend. Instead, she was traumatized and we never spoke again after that. We never laughed over jokes on friends nor rode our ponies across the valley. I did mot even utter the name Mary for many years afterwards. Somewhere inside, I still carry that card, gripped with that same sense of humiliation and fear. Maybe I should have released it into the February windstorm. Being traumatized early by Valentine’s Day remained with me many years. I should have loosened my grip.
