“Red Face”
The
flavor of fluoride mint toothpaste in my mouth as I brushed my teeth this
morning conjured up childhood memories of none other than my fourth and fifth
grade orchestra teacher, Mr. Picardo.
He
looked like the kind of person who might’ve worked as a Santa Clause in a
two-bit mall on his days off. His greying hair lay thick on his head down to
his impressive beard. It was clear that he rarely shaved and, his rounded belly
bulged past the buckle of his black leather belt. After we squeaked D and F
scales out of our violins, “Smashing,” he would reply sonorously, with a hint
of sarcasm mediated by an eye-wrinkling smile. It seemed like he was always in
tune with the music, his arms and head bobbling with the beat as he conducted.
I
don’t remember the color of his eyes, grey perhaps or green, I never really
paid attention. Most of what I did notice was that his cheeks blazed with
color, like he was constantly blushing, but never embarrassed. “Why is your
face so red?” my classmates and I would ask, brimming with playful curiosity.
He
stopped for a moment and feigned innocence, “What? My face isn’t red…”
“Yes,
it is!” we continued.
“Well,
that’s normal, isn’t it? Why aren’t
your faces red?” His gaze shifted and indicated that we should go back to
playing Hot Cross Buns. He scratched his salmon skin under his blue Hawaiian
shirt with his pudgy, weathered fingers and readjusted his legs. He was that
kind of guy; the crazy Hawaiian shirt and acid wash jeans kind of guy.
“Haha,
nobody else’s face is like yours!” We giggled and, like the elementary
schoolers we were, started running around him teasing, “Red Face! Red Face!”
He
chuckled a few times, shrugging it off and unsteadily asked us to come closer,
“Alright, alright everyone. Janna, practice your bow form, and the rest of you
need start practicing Hot Cross Buns for the Fall Concert.” But as soon as he
opened his mouth, the room filled with an uncomfortable odor like fermented
saliva. I held my breath and tried not to breathe when I was near him. Suddenly,
somebody broke the silent thought in everyone’s minds.
“Mr.
Picardo, your breath STINKS!” she exclaimed, smirking because even though the
stale smell was indeed terrible, we still looked upon him with unwavering
admiration. He was our funnily sardonic, always enthusiastic orchestra teacher
after all. All the kids loved Mr. Picardo for his openness, his droll
disposition, but the other teachers seemed to keep a steady distance away from
him. Perhaps it was the smell, we thought.
It
isn’t until now that I realize his habits and appearance embodied one of an obvious
alcoholic. Yet, why does my growing maturity bring upon such instant judgment? Why
does the label “an alcoholic” seem to say something about his entire being, not
simply a part of his life that he might’ve struggled with?
At the time, I
only understood that it was Mr. Picardo who taught me what each string on the
violin was and what rosin was for, gave me an enthusiasm for music and helped
me string together tunes from a collection of broken notes. Now, what runs
through my mind isn’t how well he taught scales or conducted our concerts, but
rather why he drank the way he did, how he became an elementary school music
teacher (maybe he couldn’t make it in the music world), and how many bottles of
wine he would consume when he wasn’t teaching us – none of which has anything
to do with how he treated me.
I am nineteen,
technically a legal adult, but I think I saw people more clearly when I was
nine.
I hope you enjoyed this true story from my elementary days.
