Burro Genius

by Victor Villaseñor

  I didn’t like the look of things. There were kids running around all over the place and I didn’t know any of them. My mother closed her door and came around the back of our car and opened the car door for me.

  “Come on, mijito,” she said.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t want to go, mama.”

  “But you got to,” she said.

  “Why?” I said. “Papa didn’t go to school and he always says that all a person has to do in this country is die and pay taxes.”

  She laughed. “Well, that’s true when you grow up, mijito, and go into business, but right now you’re still small, so you got to go to school before you can pay your taxes and die. Come on,” she added, “give me your hand. I’ll walk you in.”

  I still wouldn’t give her my hand. “Mama,” I said, “can you please stay with me for my first day of school?”

  “I don’t know if I can do that,” she said. “We’ll ask. Maybe I can. Then I’ll just go to the store, check the cash register, and come right back.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  Hearing this, I felt a lot better, so I took my mother’s hand and got out of our car. There were kids and parents rushing by all around us. My mother squatted down on her heels of her pretty red shoes and started picking all the white and brown chicken feathers off on my shirt and hair. This was when I spotted the three huge eucalyptus trees that stood across the street in front of the school. Two of the trees had smooth-skin on their trunks, but the other one had twisted-skin all about its bottom structure. I immediately liked the one with twisted-skin best. I could see that he was smiling like a huge, old white elephant as he watched the kids run past him. I nodded, “Good morning,” to the huge tree, and he, of course, winked back at me just as mi mamagrande had always told me that trees will do when we address them with an open heart.

  “Come on, mijito,” said my mother, standing back up and closing our car door behind me. “I got most of the chicken feathers off of you. I can see that we’re going to have to start closing our car windows at night, so the chickens don’t try to nest on our car seats anymore.”

  I nodded. This was something that I really liked a lot about my mother and father. They were always thinking ahead so we didn’t make the same mistake twice. Making the same mistake—which I used to do when I was little—could really be painful if you kept getting knocked on your ass by life.

  I thanked my mama for cleaning me up, and she now walked me across the street. My mama looked so tall and beautiful in her new red high-heeled shoes and long, smooth, silver-gray dress. Her dress made a nice little swishing sound as she walked. She was carrying my lunch bag for me and holding my hand. The touch of her hand felt so warm and good that it made me feel good all the way up my arm. I loved mi mama. She, too, was my everything—just as my dad’s mama had been his everything when he’d been small. My eyes darted everywhere. I’d never seen so many kids in all my life. And almost all of them were bigger than me and they spoke English and were laughing and having so much fun. I didn’t see any kids that looked scared and were holding on to his mother’s hand for dear life like I was doing. But I didn’t care. I loved holding hands with mi mama.

  But, then, getting to the three big eucalyptus trees across the street, I stopped. I didn’t want to go any farther.

  “No, mama,” I said, pulling my mother down close to my face so I could whisper to her, “this is a bad school. I don’t want to go.”

  “But how can you know that it’s a bad school,” she said. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”

  “This tree, the old wrinkled one, he told me, mama.” Trees had been speaking to me all of my life. Ever since mi mamagrande had taught me how to plant corn and listen to our vegetable garden. And old trees—not only liked to talk a lot, but they were also really worth listening to, my grandmother had explained to me, because they’d seen lots of life and so they were real smart.

  “What did he tell you, mijito?” asked my mother.

  “He told me that bad, awful things happen at this school.”

  “And did he, then, tell you to not to go to school?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me that, mama. He said that I’m going to have to be very careful and very strong at this school.”

  “You see, mijito, then this tree isn’t telling you to not go to school here. He’s just telling you that you must learn to be careful and strong, just like my mother’s Crying Tree used to advise me back in La Lluvia de Oro, during the Revolution. So come on, mijito, you must be brave, and if anything really bad does happen to you, before I come back from the store, then you just run out and hug this tree, your friend, till I get back. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling much better now. “And I promise not to pick my nose, mama, even if my mocos get dry and itch real bad.”

  “Good, and here, take my handkerchief,” said my mother. “This way you can blow your nose like a gentleman, instead of picking your nose like a foolish tontito.”

  Hearing this word tontito, I laughed, because it meant dummy, but in a very affectionate way. Taking mi mama’s handkerchief, I felt so proud. Because I knew that mi mamagrande had especially hand-embroidered this handkerchief with the little red roses for my mother. Quickly, I put the handkerchief in the right back pocket of my Levi’s, and we now went past the three huge old eucalyptus trees, through the wire-mesh gate that was way taller than me, and up towards the buildings of the school itself.

  Inside the fence, kids were playing ball and running every which way. One boy came rushing by us so fast, chasing after a big white ball, that he bumped into me, almost knocked me down, and when he saw how I was holding on to my mother’s hand, he laughed, calling me a “sissy” or something like that, but I didn’t let go of my mother’s hand. No, my dad had well explained to me that a real man didn’t get offended if other men ridiculed him for staying close to the women of his familia. That a real hombre was proud of being close and loving with the women of his life.

  After asking several people questions, my mother led me down a concrete walkway that didn’t have any lumps of chicken shit on it like ours at home, towards the far building. Suddenly, without warning, a buzzer buzzed so loud that it scared the living hell out of me and I covered both of my ears with my hands.

  Now kids were running fast in all directions and parents were waving goodbye and going out the wire-mesh gates to their cars. My mother and I were just about the only people left on the playgrounds. This was the first time I heard anyone else speaking Spanish besides my mother and me. This other Mexican mother, who had three little kids with her and seemed to be even more lost than my mother and me, asked my mother for help. My mother took her slip of paper, read it, then pointed towards the same building where we were headed.

  I then saw that she had a girl who was probably just about my same age. But the girl looked taller and braver than me. Quickly, I guessed that this was the type of girl that my dad would say I should breed with—I mean, marry first, then breed. Because you see, ever since I could remember, my dad had been telling me that any breeder of fighting bulls or fighting cocks knew that when he finally found a good bull or cock, he didn’t ask who the rooster or bull were. No, he asked who was the cow or the hen, because the cows who carried their young in their bellies, and the hens, who knew how to build their nests and sit on their eggs, had been given very special instincts by God. Women were the foundation of any home or tribe or nation, my dad always told me, so it was never too early for a boy to start studying girls, so he’d know how to choose the best wife. So I now watched this girl as she walked alongside her mother, as we all walked together to the far building. She was real pretty.

  My mother knocked on the door. A tall woman opened the door, read over the slip of paper that my mother gave her, and then indicated to me to enter the classroom and go to the rear of the room. But the room smelled funny and all the kids in the front of the class were staring at me. I froze, refusing to let go of my mother�
��s hand.

  Then the tall woman, our teacher, read the other mother’s form, and gestured her daughter to also go to the rear of the classroom, where all the other Mexican kids were located. And to my surprise, the tall, dark-haired girl kissed her mother, then turned and did as she was told.

  Seeing this, I let go of my mother’s hand. I was mystified by this girl. My God, she looked so brave, just walking right down the center aisle with all the eyes of the other students on her. Myself, I was ready to pee in my pants, I was so scared.

  Suddenly it entered my mind that all these girls at school had also, probably, been told by their parents to start looking at us boys to see who would make a good husband. If this was true, then I was sure that no girl in her right mind would ever want me as a husband, the way I was behaving.

  Quickly, I dried my eyes, made sure not to pick my nose—which was just itching to be picked—and I reached out with my right foot to take my first step towards that center aisle so I could go to my seat, too. But then, I don’t know why, I just panicked, jerked my foot back, said to hell with what all these girls thought about me, and I grabbed hold of my mama’s leg this time—not just her hand—hanging on for dear life.

  Some of the kids started laughing. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to see them and started praying. “God,” I said, “please help me to be brave and not such a coward.”

  Then I started praying for Jesus, God’s Son, who’d been so brave that He hadn’t even cried out when they’d drove those big nails into his hands. Man, I would’ve screamed! I asked Jesus to come and help me to be brave like Him, and I was just beginning to feel better when suddenly the big, tall teacher came over and grabbed me, trying to pull me loose from my mother. I SHRIEKED at the top of my lungs. And I guess that I scared the living crap out of the teacher, because she now leaped back away from me, eyes huge with shock.

  Regaining her composure, the teacher came at me again, and this time it became a tug-of-war with the teacher trying to pull me off of my mother’s leg. But I was strong and I just wouldn’t let go. Now the whole classroom was laughing, so finally the teacher and my mother both took me in hand and walked me down the center aisle and put me in my desk. But still, I wouldn’t let go of my mother’s leg. No, I kept crying and hugging my face into mi mama’s dress so that no one could see how big a coward I was.

  “Mama,” I said. “I want you to stay! Please, I don’t want to go to school here! Something bad is going to happen!”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen to you at school, mijito,” said my mother. “Some of my happiest memories were going to school. So now let go of me. Don’t you see how nice and quiet everyone else is behaving? You can do this, too, mijito. You’re five years old. You’re a big boy. Now, please, take your lunch, and let go of me.”

  Looking around, I could see that my mother was right. All these other kids were my age and they were already at their desks and not crying. My mother finally got me to let go of her, finger by finger, then she pushed me down, telling me to stay put. She gave me my brown paper lunch bag and I dropped my head, watching the back of my mother’s beautiful red shoes go up the center aisle towards the front of the classroom, stop, talk to the teacher, who wore black shoes, then go out the door.

  Seeing my mother’s red shoes disappear, I almost leaped up screaming again, but then, the boy next to me said, “Calmate,” in Spanish, “we’re going to be okay, mano.”

  I turned and looked at this boy. My God, his Spanish sounded so soft and comforting, and he was the most darkly handsome boy that I’d ever seen. His eyes were as large and beautiful as a goat’s eyes. Looking at him, I stopped crying. He was so calm and sure of himself.

  I wiped my eyes, rubbed my nose clean with the back of my hand, and started to wipe it off on my Levi’s, but then I remembered my mother’s handkerchief, and so I brought it out and wiped my hand. This felt good. My mamagrande had done such a beautiful job when she’d hand-embroidered this handkerchief.

  Looking out the window, I caught a glimpse of my mother’s beautiful red hat as she walked out of the wire-mesh gate, and crossed the street to our car. I took a breath and put my face down into my mama’s handkerchief, smelled of her fragrance, felt better, and said another quick little prayer for Jesus to help me be brave, and made the sign of the cross, over myself which always felt very good to do, too.

  “You don’t have to be crying,” continued saying the boy next to me in Spanish. “We’re together back here, and we’re going to be okay. Haven’t you ever been away from your mother before?”

  “Yes, but, then, I was always with mi mamagrande or my father or my sister and brother.”

  “Me, too,” he said. “When I was little, but now we’re all big, so we got to—”

  This was when we heard a scream.

  And it was a huge awful scream. “ENGLISH ONLY!” shouted our teacher at us as she came rushing down the aisle towards us Mexican kids in the back. There were about eight of us Mexican kids and three Black kids in the back of the classroom. All the other students were White and they were up in the front part of the room. “You two will not be whispering back and forth between each other, telling secrets in my classroom! Do you understand me?”

  Her face was filled with such anger that I stopped crying. No, now I was so scared, I was ready to pee in my pants.

  “Pee pee!” I said, standing up and holding my mother’s hand-embroidered white handkerchief as tight as I could between my legs. All the kids started laughing.

  “There will be no bathroom till recess!” she shouted. “Get back in your seat!” she added, grabbing me by the shoulders and shoving me back down in my seat. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day! There will be no more special attention given to you!” Then she turned to the whole class. “Is that understood! We’re here to learn, and that’s what we are going to do: LEARN!”

  I was sitting quietly with my eyes closed, hoping to God that no one noticed that I was beginning to pee. But my pee wouldn’t stop, no matter how much I squeezed my legs together. And at first, my underwear and the handkerchief soaked up most of the pee, so I hoped to God that maybe this would be the end of it. But then, to my surprise, the pee just kept coming and coming and began working its way down the seat of my pants, feeling real warm as it formed a puddle of urine under me on the seat of my desk.

  Then, incredibly, the pee still wouldn’t stop and it continued coming in a steady flow, and now I could feel that it was going to start dripping off the sides of my seat. And if it did this, I just knew that everyone around me would start hearing the drip-dropping sound of my pee as it hit the floor like rain coming off the roof of a house.

  I pulled my butt forward, through the warm puddle of urine on my seat, so that I could maybe get my urine to slide forward and run down the inside of my new Levi’s. And thank God, it worked. I pulled my butt forward through the puddle of urine and I could now feel most of my pee running down the inside of my Levi’s and going into my boots, warming my feet.

  But I had no control of the smell, and soon the smell was beginning to cause the people closest to me to sniff the air and look towards me. This was when I saw the tall girl, who’d walked so bravely down the center aisle, turn and give me a look of pure disgust. I began to cry. I just couldn’t help it. It was only my first day of school and I’d already failed. No girl in her right mind would now ever want me for a husband. I was a coward, and cowards were no good for nothing, ever. But then, I saw that one good thing about only having Mexicanos all around me, was that not one of them said a word, so the rest of the classroom never knew about my moment of terrible shame.

  By the time recess was called, I didn’t have to pee anymore. But still, I went to the bathroom, got in a stall, took off my Levi’s, slipped off my underwear, and threw them and my mother’s handkerchief into the toilet. But they wouldn’t flush down no matter how much I tried. Then, horror of horrors, the toilet began to overflow.

  “Oh, my God,” I said, “
why are You letting all these terrible things happen to me, Papito? Eh, is it that I did something wrong? Or are You just so busy doing big, important stuff that You forgot that we had a deal and You were going to stay close to me today.”

  I quickly put my wet Levi’s back on, fished my mother’s white handkerchief out of the toilet, and ran out of the restroom so that no one would know that I’d ruined the bathroom, with the toilet now overflowing all over the place.

  Outside, I tried to squeeze all the urine and toilet water out of my mother’s handkerchief. My heart was beat, beat, beating a million miles an hour. Then I noticed that the tall, old, wrinkled eucalyptus tree was right there by my side, just outside our playground and he was smiling at me. “Be brave,” he said to me in a soft, kind tone of voice. “Be brave.”

  And saying this, his limbs took on wind and all his leaves began to sing and dance. I took a deep breath. I didn’t know what to do, but he was being so kind and beautiful that I suddenly felt a lot less scared. I glanced around and saw that all the other Mexican kids of my classroom were at the far end of the playground.

  “Go to them,” said the huge old tree, winking at me. “And always remember what your mother told you, that school and life are much easier when we have friends. See, myself, I’m not alone. I have two good friends growing alongside of me.”

  And it was true; the old wrinkled tree had two smooth-barked trees growing right alongside of him. And they, too, were now dancing and smiling at me with the wind rustling through their leaves. I felt a whole lot better. “Thank you,” I said to all three trees, and then I turned and started across the playground.

  The darkly handsome boy’s name was Ramón, and he was the one who was doing most of the talking when I came up. None of the other kids paid any attention to me, and who could blame them? I was the biggest crybaby of the lot.

  “What are we going to do?” asked one boy.

  “I don’t know,” said Ramón, “but one thing is for certain, they’re treating us here like we’re a bunch of pendejos.”