It had to happen some day. It was only a matter of time.
First thing this morning, I got paperwork on two new students. I get copies of their intake forms since I make the I.D. cards and the Internet passwords, and request their computer network passwords. We get maybe six or so new students a month. Their handwritten entry forms are often hard to read, and, like this one, show that the student is not a native speaker of English, and that the language spoken at home is Russian.
The boy's name is Yakov.
I looked at his address. It is my address, or was. He lives in my house, the house I grew up in.
Wow. It blew me away. But it had to happen; my parents sold the house more than ten years ago to move into an apartment, and I knew that the family who bought it from them had moved, or was about to. They had younger children, not in the high school yet. But someday, it was inevitable.
Yakov came in for his I.D. card at lunch, accompanied by a student guide. I got up and shook his hand, and told him that he lived in my house. He looked puzzled; although he understands English words, it took him some time to put it together. He knew what I said, but he was so overwhelmed, poor thing, on his first day in a big school that he did not think it was particularly cool.
His guide did. He got it right away. He thought it was very cool. As did Colleague, who came out of her office to meet the kid who lives in my house.
He sat down for his I.D. card picture and as I got the camera going, I asked him if he had a nickname. I explained what a nickname was. I asked if anyone ever called him Jack. Now he's thinking I'm really crazy, but then I explained that my father's name was Jacob, but people called him Jack.
Poor Yakov looked glad to get out of the library. Jeffrey, his guide, was tickled by the whole thing.
As was I. It was a nice house.
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I'm watching Raymond
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Sweet Sorrow - 06.12.2007
So ... - 12.19.2006
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Fifteen Years - 12.17.2006
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