Monologue Between the Pages

Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to school!


On every occasion, I pay a visit to a second-hand bookshop Downtown. Picking random bindings from a shelf, sniffing patina of antique volumes, flipping through pages in various languages—brings my brain to alpha waves faster than particle beams travel inside the Large Hadron Collider.

Hiding behind massive reading glasses, the owlish shop owner never rushes anyone or asks any questions—unless you ask first. Mr. Alani*, an impressive ginger cat, greets me instead, ushering a potential client to the depths of the labyrinth of books.

My attention grabs a colorful rooster painted on a book cover. Unwillingly—nostalgic ABCs are not on my reading list—I pull it out of the pile. A thick paper rectangle pops out of it like an egg from a hen. I pick the finding up from the floor—the tiniest rescue mission from the feline nails ever.

The treasure turns out to be a vintage postcard depicting an impressive three-story building with big windows surrounded by freshly planted trees. I flip the side. Tiny bead-like handwriting neatly covers the thick paper, hardly leaving any space for address and receiver. I search for the beam of light pulsating through the bookshop window to devour the frailing ink:

City center. Indian summer invites to attend the early morning parade. Yellow chestnut leaves celebrate in a clap-dance on the park pavement—a free pass to everyone!

Armed with posh vermilion gladiolus swords, white, purple asters—Per Aspera ad Astra—pupils of all sizes—first-graders firmly gripped by adults—on purpose to escort them safely to the Temple Of Knowledge.

Century long traditions at their finest: dark blue suits for boys, dresses for girls, thick braids decorated with white cauliflower-like ribbons—altogether painting a marinescape: deep waters with sparkling droplets and bubbles accented by blazing blooms. A gurgling water stream—students’ procession—mountain creeks and rivers search-and-find journey to immerse into the lake.

Disguised in wet grass, silky-smooth, brown chestnuts peeping anxiously—unpretentious fate—soon to be picked up by tiny fingers and assembled into fairy tale monsters.

Ravenous mallard ducks flocked on the Canal banks: grey females—quacking while males—manifesting colors of unity in proud silence.

For more than a hundred years-these two—ducks and chestnuts—are the only to witness as the building hides the students behind its Renaissance Revival style fa;ade like a hencoop secures hens for a night.

First-graders take the first floor. So here are they—stuffed in the classroom like a pile of cute blind tabbies of the same litter in a cardboard box. Soft and naive kittens. Peeping at me behind their desks from their spiky chestnut shells. All the same—and still—everyone is unique as a snowflake.

A lifelong journey starts on the First Day At School. I am the first person they encounter on their bumpy road.

I am a shepherd for this herd of sheep.

A tiger cannot change its stripes. So they say. Should I change their kitten tabby stripes to resemble the Flag of Nation?

Nobody knows what I am thinking. Only the park walnut trees—planted together with the cornerstone of the school building—can see through the classroom windows. Majestic trees waving at me like a long-lost-and-found friend: I sat in the same class on the same day many years ago.

Decades of siege, outbursts of several wars, revolutions both: bloody and peaceful, Holocaust, regimes, cultural deprivation, and more: nothing has power to shake the sacred traditions of The First Day At School. A day when The Teacher steps up as Savior.

I notice myself blindly staring out the window. A strong aroma of flowers brings me back to my—now a teacher's—table. A fresh childhood grave piled with bouquets. Flowers are their toll to ferry through the River of Knowledge to the Universe of Adulthood.

I smile at little passengers and clap my hands in a salute:

— Good morning, class! Happy September 1st! Thank you all for coming to our school and bringing these beautiful flowers. My name is Mr. Anderson. You can call me—Teacher. I will be your class teacher. Now. Tell me YOUR names, please!

I return a postcard with someone's ;teacher's monologue back between the pages. Being an avid reader, I am grateful to my first-grade teacher for introducing me to the ABC, followed by the infinite Cosmos of letter combinations. Mr. Alani is watching me.

*Hawaiian for orange tree