Summer afternoons have the
power to snatch from my mind memories of events I have never lived. When the
sun shines through the retina, it stimulates electrochemical links in my brain that
make me feel euphoric, and remember I can not pinpoint what. I just know that
the sensations they make me experience, I have felt before; whether when I was a
child, or when I was in my mother's womb, or in another life, I'm not sure. The
one thing I am certain of is that the warm summer breeze stroking my face, the fluttering
leaves, the sunlight reverberating on the road, the red and yellow wild flowers
flirting with the green meadows, the black soil freshly ploughed and ready to
be sown, the cumulus clouds in the sky, and the deep blue color of the lake,
make me evoke a harmonious and luminous state in which I levitate, with my
senses and instincts enhanced, noticing, sensing, and absorbing everything surrounding
me. Then I can understand why worshipping the sun, as did the ancient civilizations,
makes more sense than venerating the abstraction of an anthropomorphic God.
The afternoon heat also reminds me of
situations that I did live, like my childhood in the tropics, when infinity,
simple and harmless lay ahead of me. Shortly before two in the afternoon, as if
being carried by a reverie, I would be walking down the tunnel of trees that
was Avenida Hermanas Mirabal, on my way to Colegio San Francisco. There was a
tree in the centre of the school yard, under which we used to play; I remember
it immense, casting a gigantic shadow over us, as if wanting to protect us from
evil, thereby keeping intact the state of well-being in which we were
wrapped.
Lucía was a very cool brunette, with straight
black hair, and eyes that sparkled like the stars. Fortune decided that she
would be my first grade teacher. When the rain storm broke out, and the school
yard was flooded, she would stop the classes, and we would spend the time
making little paper boats that we used to place on top of a wave, and then we
would watch them disappear into some abyss that probably transported them to
remote and unknown worlds.
Marta’s complexion was like honey or
caramel. She always wore her hair tucked into a bun. In spite of her grumpy face, always frowning,
she was actually very kind-hearted. Life rewarded me with the joy of having her
as my second grade teacher. She was the one who thought that I was dedicated
enough, and sufficiently prepared to jump straight to grade four. She made up
her mind, and got the principal, (a Franciscan priest who came from Spain
Consuelo the mother of three, the wife of
one, and my fourth grade teacher, of whom I was very fond, had a face that betrayed
the misery of a failed marriage. How could a nine-year old child know about
those matters? I know, because, printed in some cache inside my memory, there
is a snapshot of her chatting with another teacher about the painful circumstances
she was going through. Her name, which
means consolation, was of little help.
Chance put Camila, a plump, short, and very
sensual young woman, on my path to be my fifth grade teacher. I say she was
sensual because that’s the way Miguel, a classmate, taught me to look at her.
And I say that in hindsight; at that time my vocabulary was not that rich. Miguel
spent all his time staring at Camila’s chest, and whispering to me. He once
told me that it seemed like she was horny because her breasts were erect; he
said that when a woman’s breasts were like that, it meant that she wanted to
have sex with a man. That may sound unbelievable; we were only ten years old,
and we were already desiring the teacher’s’ tits. All my teachers were
cool. I can’t remember a single one of
them that I disliked.
As if dreaming of Camila’s nipples was not
enough to prevent us from staying focused, half-way through grade five Clara
arrived. San Francisco School San José School Santiago San José School
© William Almonte Jiménez,
2015
