my 7th grade Texas History teacher was an older Hispanic man
brown wrinkled skin, glasses, large bag of prescription pills on his desk
a light accent punctuating his words as he described
the saga of Mexican-Americans in Texas
my people were recorded in books
and I was happy
this class was a haven
not just for the mix of myth and narrative
my teacher looked like popo
checkered shirts
trifocal glasses
peppered hair mostly parted to the left
a slight paunch
my heart swelled every time I saw him
his quick Spanish (almost never English)
collecting pecans at the park in the cold
buckets overflowing and ready to be sold
cracking them later with a small contraption he made from wood and rubber bands
my teachers voice lifting as he emphasized a point
that awed his audience
telling us stories of bygone times
their absence leaves echoes
Photo: Lord Mutanthand by Nathan Marciniak [Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs]
Christy Leos 