Back in 1984, at the
beginning of the school year, my kindergarten teacher gave us a note to hand to
our parents. It asked them to provide us with a towel to use for our daily afternoon
naps. Two years before, my family had moved to a suburb of Orlando from
Guadalajara, Mexico. My mother couldn’t speak much English. Her reading skills
weren’t so great either. She read the note and thought the towel was for drying
our hands. And so, she bought this towel for me. It is just over 2 feet long by
1 1/3 feet wide. She stitched my name on a corner, and I took it to
class.
One day, near the end of
the school year, my mom came early to pick me up. She came right after
lunchtime when my classmates were sprawled out across the air-conditioned
classroom, listening to soft lullabies for our naptime. I was curled up on the
floor, resting my head on the blue hand towel, while my classmates slept on top
of their towels. That’s when my mother realized what it was meant for. She felt
awful, seeing my little body resting directly over the floor.
When we left the classroom,
she asked me in Spanish, “Why didn’t you tell me you needed a bigger towel?” My
mom told me I looked up at her, then away, before I shrugged and said, “I don’t
know. It’s okay.”
Many years later, I still recognize myself in that moment.
I hope I will never lose
this towel and the story it contains.
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| self-portrait with blue towel, 2016 |
