A riveting match of decimals baseball was interrupted in my classroom today when Joseph, a dark, spirited boy with a thick French accent who can perform all operations of decimals in his head, leaped out of his seat and bolted to the window so fast I thought he’d shatter it.
“Miss! Miss! Is that snow?” he cried.
Before I had a chance to answer, he erupted into dance—a dance joyful enough to summon the snow gods—eyes wide, hands outstretched, as though he were chasing flurries through an imaginary snow globe.
“Yes, Joseph, of course it’s snow!” I answered. “Why are you so excited? Is it because it’s a half day?”
Before I even finished, it dawned on me. Joseph moved to New Britain from Ivory Coast last summer—meaning this was the very first time he’d set his eyes on snow. And while the rest of the kids carried on with decimal division, I stood and watched Joseph, his jubilance increasing with every flake, spinning around so ecstatically I thought he would drill himself right through the floor.
I decided I’m going to think of Joseph every morning at 6:30 when I realize I’d forgotten to park my car in the garage the night before, and I’m chiseling snow off my windshield with frost-bitten hands, snow clumping my eyelashes and soaking through my shoes. I’ll think of his blissful face, his singsong voice, and especially, the euphoric snow dance in the middle of my classroom.
Then I’ll stab my thought bubble with an elephant tusk. Either that, or the broken shovel that someone ran over in the driveway from the week before.
Here we go again, New England. Happy snow blowing.