In this moment, one by one, everyone in the class burst out
laughing. He continued, “So….this is how
I imagined cave men talking to each other: Ugg-A-Mugg-Chugg-Bug!!!!” He used a deep voice
and contorted his face, then smiled and let this sink in for us, “What do you think?” Detective Darrell looked around and saw that classmates
were smiling, and asking questions. Perhaps
our teacher hadn’t completely lost his mind after all but I wasn’t yet sure. I had been distracted by day dreaming about
the children John Lennon and I would have someday and didn’t understand the
point of this repeating cave-speak. Despite
my dramatic imagination and irrational fears, it seemed that our classroom had
innocently become a community of cave people.
A cacophony of Ugg A Mugg Chugg Bugs were being joyfully discussed in animated
conversation around the room. I began to
feel brave and hear my own voice join in.
We were very awake now, in the moment and thinking again. I had not given cave men communication one
iota of thought at the ripe old age of eleven, but in an instant Mr. Vitarelli
transported us back in time, and inspired me forever.
This was the year that was. It was 1965 and the Beatles, an
assassination, Civil Rights, NASA, Communism, Vietnam and Cuba were consuming
our outside world. In the inside confines
of this small, safe, Greater Boston classroom we were consumed with other, more
important things. Mr. Vitarelli was our
first male teacher, ever. We had no idea
what to do with this information. But, it
seemed all we talked about, every day. The boys were relieved and relaxed for the
first time, ever. It was like they
finally had a buddy in the front of the classroom. The girls were obsessively
tittering and convinced our new teacher looked exactly like Paul McCartney.
Because I was in love with and convinced I would marry John Lennon, I
hadn’t entirely noticed. In reality there was not one thing about this man that
resembled The Cute Beatle. Nothing whatsoever,
only that he wore a suit coat with thin lapels, and had a swooping haircut. That’s it.
A coat, and some hair. The
principal could have walked in and it’s entirely possible the girls would have
thought he was Ringo Starr. Sixth grade
was not about logic, but instead raging hormones and distorted dreams. This was a school year destined for the
metaphor of changing perceptions and seeing the world through a creative lens. This was a time before a nation’s assessment
obsession controlled the heart and soul of a teacher’s day.
Mr. V started his day talking with us, not at us. This was a teacher who seemed to like and
value us as humans and future people of the world. He integrated art, music and the news into our
lessons and applied real life creatively into just about anything we were
learning. We wrote a lot and he cared
that we do better. One time he drew
portraits of each and every student and gave them to us as a gift. Suddenly I
loved going to school for the very first time.
He was also a story teller and nurtured us to tell our own. “He’s HYSTERICAL! Did you see him do that impersonation of ...”
We were enamored with this man who was newly married and had a baby. His morning tales about Baby Douglas were the
funniest we had ever heard. As an only
child this was my first glimpse into what babies really did at home. I was mesmerized by the comedy of spit up,
the pratfalls of learning to walk and the parental horror of a baby pulling
down an entire bookcase. As a burgeoning
adolescent this was a teacher who simply seemed to be funny and nice. Now as an older adult I realize he was compassionate,
patient, creative and very smart. He effortlessly built community, taught boundaries
and instilled trust all the while being responsible for the education of a
tinder box of eleven and twelve year olds.
By winter my ever growing Liverpool fascination now included
the purchase of white Go-Go Boots, and Yardley lip gloss which I would sneak on
during the bus ride going to school. By
spring break I was wearing white eyeliner, straightening my hair with large
rollers and combing my bangs stylishly to the right over my eye. I sincerely
thought my parents hadn’t noticed. I was
a Fashionista Train Wreck consumed with Sweet 16 magazine, troll dolls, going
to Harvard Square and this new thing I just had to have by the spring
dance: Panty Hose. Photos from that year confirm that I had the
grace of a bear, and finesse of a goat. But in Mr. V’s class we were all perfectly ok
the way we were.
We traveled that year, too.
Once we wrapped and painted
papier–mâché over
milk cartons to resemble the art of the Aztec civilization. Another time
we trekked to a nearby local stream to see, scrape and smell what our science
books taught. We visited the Boston
Globe to watch papers be printed and the Schrafft Candy Factory to learn about
industry and how things were made. Then there was that visit we took down the
hall to see this thing called “a computer.” Someone had brought this monstrosity
in from MIT which took up an entire four walls of a room, from floor to
ceiling. We walked in single file slowly
and circled the room quietly to take it all in.
As we left Mr. V told us that “someday everyone will have one of these
in their homes!” I left trying to
imagine why on earth that was going to happen, not to mention how. I went home and adamantly told my parents, “We
are gonna need a bigger house for this computer thing when everyone has one
someday.” I thought their smiles meant it
was a done deal and we would be moving soon.
At some point, we all moved on. I have no memory of that moment. Eventually sixth grade just ended and Mr.
Vitarelli faded away. The Beatles broke
up, we landed a man on the moon and the draft took many of those boys very far
away. I stopped wearing make-up and let my hair go natural. I eventually found grace. Decades flew and the sights and sounds of my
past became muted.
Then one day it became now.
I was on a computer the size of a book when Mr. Vitarelli
and I once again crossed paths. It was
forty-eight years later. He was 72 and I
was 58.
“..your son Douglas guided
me to sending you a note, as I am looking for the Mr. Vitarelli who was a 6th
grade teacher outside Boston in the 1960’s..if this is not you, my kindest
apologies…” my email went on to let him know I was writing on behalf of our
class. Several classmates and I wanted
to thank him after all these years for how he had inspired us. He wrote me right back, confirmed the details
and noted, “Great detective work!”
And there we were, trying to communicate within a new
language all over again. Ugg.
It was like time travel to a familiar and yet long ago,
distant, foreign place. The words all sounded
familiar but the context was jarring and we looked so different… A Mugg.
A child had become an adult… Chugg.
And a metamorphosis had taken place. Bug!
He
was actually an artist, a painter and a writer who left teaching long ago. “…I went on to become a managing editor…I've
lived in Europe, been in publishing and public relations…I hope you are well;
tell me something about yourself…How wonderful to retrieve a bit of the happy
past with a letter out of the blue like yours..I am truly humbled by your
letter..”
Robert
and I wrote back and forth several
times for a week before the portrait of whom we had become was current. He learned that my parents had died long ago,
I had gone on to college and now had two degrees, moved far away, was happily
married for many years and adored my two adult children. We were an artistic family and I was proud to
share all of this with him. He reflected
similarly and listened with care.
“I'm retiring in February and have
no idea where my imagination will take me…” I had no doubt it would be
joyful. When Robert did retire I sent
him a copy of our 6th grade class photo to mark the beginning as being
important and related to the end.
Last
spring a student of mine posted a photo on my Facebook page of me proudly
standing beside him and his dad at his graduation ceremony. He
wrote a touching tribute of thanks for me having mentored him and the
appreciation for that lifelong gift. I
was truly humbled. Robert read it and
immediately wrote to me, “Wow! So
wonderful. In a very small way, I feel a part of your successes. Brava!!!”
To
which I replied, “Robert, yes, indeed,
you are a part of mine!!!! The Butterfly Effect Theory in its most beautiful
form. :-) Thank you for your kind words.”
Rest
in Peace, Mr. Robert Vitarelli.
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