The Best Worst Day

You may have been counting down until today. But I’ve been dreading it, fearing it, hoping it’d never come. So have the kids. Every day, I’m surrounded by a chorus of “No te vayas (don’t go).” I’m presented with a new suggestion (Visit your family and come right back. If you can’t pay for the air ticket, ask Superhero Monkey to take you, or have a million parrots carry you. - Stow me away in your suitcase. - Come back for Christmas, for my birthday, in January.). Every day I feel my eyes fill with tears, and beg them not to spill over, not yet.

No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t slow time. And today is finally here. My last day. After frenzied packing, letter writing, and party preparation, I walk to the school for the last time, practicing smiling through the pain.

When I arrive, I see my same feelings reflected in the eyes of my kids. But they look beautiful, wearing their decorated t-shirts from yesterday and smiling just like me, through, unshed tears. I gather the kids, and we hike up to Torre Torre for a picnic. I give my girls a disposable camera to use, and they stop for pictures every few steps. I try so hard to memorize every detail, Lizbeth’s goofy laugh, Ingrid’s cautious baby steps on the rocky trail, Maribel’s million camera poses, Diana’s yell to hurry up, and Thalia’s gorgeous face trying so hard to maintain her smile.

After we have our snack, I announce that it’s time to head back to the school. I know that my girls can sense the time running out, like an hourglass down to the last few grains of sand. They fight to hold my hand, to take one last picture with me, to have me sign their shirts. They beg me not to leave.

When we get back to the school, and I hand out bags with pictures, letters, candy, and most of the clothing I’ve worn for the last 3 months, the floodgates are cast open. Lizbeth, Diana, and Maribel run to me, and I can hardly breath.

Wrapped in the arms of three sobbing fourteen year old girls, I’m overwhelmed by emotions: guilt for making them so sad, for breaking their little hearts, for seemingly abandoning them- pride for having earned such strong love from every child- sorrow at not knowing when I will next see their shining faces- fear that they will not be here when I return- and of course the overwhelming feeling of my heart being ripped out of my chest: not in one swift blow, but slowly and painfully like a child who peels their bandaid off slowly instead of letting their mother rip it off.

I look around and see Habran, who isn’t even in my class, sobbing and Thalia with silent tears running down her face. “Te amo (I love you)“ she says, “Y nunca voy a olvidarte (and I’ll never forget you).“ As I hug each of them goodbye, I finally understand how my mother felt when I left. Yet instead of losing one child, I’m losing 10, and there are still 50 more to go. So I wipe my eyes, wave goodbye, and step into the kindergarten class.

Immediately, Miss Yolita directs me to a chair in front of the class. She counts to three and the kids start singing, or more accurately screaming, belting the song with all of their heart. All I can understand is, “Vue, Vue, Vuela en un avion (fl, fl, fly in a plane),” and I laugh and cry at the same time. Luis sees my video camera and starts dancing and rolling on the floor. I feel my already ripped open heart being chopped into pieces. As each kid comes up to give me a hug, I never want to let them go. Waving goodbye, I wish I could once again hear “Hasta lunes, (see you Monday).”

the younger morning class

my morning class

my girls

Not three hours later, I step off the bus by the school and find two of my girls waiting for me, scrambling to take my bags and hold my hand. For the last time. I can tell they’re upset, but I make them promise to smile and have fun until the end of the day.

Like the morning, the afternoon goes absolutely perfectly. The kids laugh and smile as we play crazy games. We tie balloons to their ankles and have them stop on each others,’ we have them holding on to each other in a line with the head trying to catch the tail, and we have them play tug-o-war. It starts raining, but only for long enough to go inside, eat a snack, and take some more pictures. Then it is bright and sunny again.

At the end of the day, we make the kids stand in line as we hand each of them a tissue full of flour and tied with a knot…a flour bomb. On the count of three, everyone goes wild, drilling each other with the flour bombs that explode upon impact. My hair turns from gringa light brown to old lady white in seconds, and I laugh as kid after kid pours flour on me. When the bombs run out, they scoop the piles off the ground and keep playing. I just stand there and watch, absorbing their joy like the stray dogs that lay in the street soaking up the sun. I wish that I could stay right here, for hours or days or a month.

But the clock keeps on ticking. When the flour runs out and is too scattered to be scooped off the ground, I get out their goody bags and start handing them out. Again, everyone is so grateful. My class oohs and aahs, and in return, I am handed beautiful cards and letters, cut into shapes, covered in stickers, and layered with different colored paper. I stick them in a folder for later, and see the first of my afternoon kids come to say goodbye. Little Kevin doesn’t cry, but I almost do, especially when a group forms behind him.

I hug and kiss Efrain, Jimi, Nikol, Shayuri, Nidia, Ruth, Ronald, and then I see Johan. Johan is the craziest kid at the school, always making annoying jokes and being ornery. And he is sobbing. I had no idea that he even liked me, and somehow I’ve broken his little heart. I give him a big hug and try to cheer him up with one of his own stupid jokes, but he runs home crying. Poor baby. My heart now seems to be in a blender, and I’ve never felt worse in my life.

After Johan, I bid farewell to Alejandra, one of the first kids I talked to, the little kindergartners that came this afternoon just to see me one last time, and Anghelo, whom I taught to go across the monkey bars by himself. I say goodbye to the older girls, Yeraldine, Margoth, and Joselin, who were always so quiet and sweet, and then the older boys: Justi, who looks so grown up, Antonio, who at age 10 already wants to help the poor, and Jaime, who is wearing his usual adorable grin. And Kevin. Kevin who brought me roses and drawings and presents every day for the last two weeks. The oldest boy in the school, he too is crying as he kisses me on the cheek, leaves, and then comes back to say goodbye one more time.

My own class is the hardest, especially because I am leaving them teacherless. Benyi is one of the first to leave. The one little boy that I would’ve adopted in a heartbeat if he wasn’t so happy where he was, is trying so hard not to cry. As soon as the first tear escapes, he hops up, hugs me goodbye, and runs home, clutching my cross necklace that hangs around his neck.

My girls walk me part of the way home. At the first crossroads, I say goodbye to Liz, Isabel, Jenny, Elizabeth, and Esperanza. When we reach Ana’s house, I have to pry her off of me. She begs me for at least the millioneth time not to leave, and I hug her tight.

At the end of the dirt road by the school, I hug Yadira, the star student of my class. I tell her that she’s in charge now, and she sobs as she promises to help the other kids when I’m gone.

Then comes the hardest goodbye. During my time in Peru, Lizbeth has been like my little sister or my daughter. Every single day, she brought be gum and candy and presents. At the end of class, she always held my hand to the end of the road, and pleaded to come home with me. Now, she weeps in my arms for what seems like hours, and I know that I am probably breaking her heart even more than she is breaking mine.

As it starts to rain, Lizbeth looks at me through her tears and says, “El cielo esta llorando porque estas saliendo (The sky is crying because you’re leaving).” And it was. Its chilly drops washing away the tears but not the memories.

My afternoon class

Ana

Benyi

Luis got really into the flour war Lizbeth

Lizbeth and Liz with my handprints on the wall