a gift

"What's this?"

"You need."

And I look into the Christmas bag, lean my head back and laugh because I'm touched and embarrassed and surprised. It's too perfect, and I can feel that I'm blushing a little thanks to those fair-skinned Danish ancestors of mine.

"I did need it! Everyone will be so happy!" and I thank him and swallow the you shouldn't haves as he heads out the door and on to his class.

This semester my pencil sharpener, once the glory of my desk--kids would make special trips just to use it, once upon a time--has been notoriously terrible, and my young Brazilian friend, my newest student, has brought me a new one along with a supply of pencils (we've been down to the cheap ones even the mooches are loathe to use). What a sweet kid, what a gesture, what a start to a Monday. It's almost as good as tamales.

And at least I didn't step on his moment by apologizing for the stupid sharpener that I never got around to replacing--there's no money in the budget, district or personal--or protesting against the gift giving or otherwise showing too much discomfort with being on the receiving end. He wasn't rectifying my personal failure; he was just trying to be nice, or, you know, get his pencils sharpened. One or the other or both.

Such gift-giving is a rarity in the high school, and while my impulse is to say I prefer that, I'd never part with the Mayan calendar plate and miniature Mexican cocina that decorate my kitchen wall at home. When this sharpener goes, I suppose I'll replace it--eventually, when the protests get loud enough, and no one can write a legible word--but I won't ever forget where it came from.

Obrigado, Rafa. Feliz Natal.