Imagine little me at six years old, adorable, obviously.
Big belly poking out from under a shirt that’s losing the battle. Hair for days. Like a mini lion cub.
Basically, just picture my grandson, but it was me.
Now picture that little immigrant boy walking into his first grade class without speaking a single word of English.
No kindergarten warm-up for this kid. Straight to first grade.
I’ve been manning up since forever.
I was awkward.
Confused. Curious. Excited.
Just like I am now, but cuter.
And then there she was: Mrs. Vega.
My first teacher. My first mentor.
My angel with a chalkboard.
She made me feel brilliant.
Like I belonged.
Like I could figure this thing out.
Except the color red.
I could not, for the life of me, remember the color red.
She would try again and again:
“Natividad, what color is the balloon?”
“Blue? Brown? Green?… Red?”
It was chaos. Hilarious, confusing chaos.
But she never gave up on me. Not once.
She believed in me when I didn’t even know what a “me” was in English yet.
In that single school year, Mrs. Vega taught me how to read and write in English and Spanish. How the hell did she pull that off?
That’s superhero stuff.
But more than language, she taught me self-worth.
That I mattered.
That I was a smart little boy.
I think about her all the time.
And recently, I decided to try and find her.
I wanted to say thank you.
A real, adult, full-circle, heart-on-my-sleeve thank you.
But I was too late.
She passed during the COVID era.
And Little Tive… was heartbroken.
I didn’t get to show her who I became.
I didn’t get to thank her.
To let her know that I had mastered the color red.
I did. I really did.
So, this is my thank you.
Thank you, Mrs. Vega, for seeing me when I was invisible.
For teaching me the alphabet and humanity.
With all the love from Old Teevee and Little Tive.
Forever your student.
