Mr. Dube

His name was Craig Dube.

I was eleven years old and he was a whole two months older than me.

Before you start judging Craig based solely on his name, let me tell you that he had blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. And that he played baseball and Math was his favorite subject (I always did like the smart ones). But most importantly in the world of sixth graders, he did not have a girlfriend.

I barely spoke English. I had just arrived from Brazil and my English skills went as far as introducing myself and saying “this is an apple.” Oh, and also, thanks to a popular song in the 90s, informing anyone that would care to listen that the book was on the table. But I won’t bother you here with my foreignness, or the difficulties I encountered in a new country, in a new school, in what is already the most difficult time of any young girl’s life.

Regardless of the fact that I thought Mr. Dube was the definition of good looks, he was not the most popular kid in school. For reasons I, obviously, cannot imagine. I adored him and was convinced, after first setting my eyes on him, that we would someday get married.

We never even got close.

But somehow, in those first few months I spent in the US, regardless of my almost non-existent knowledge of the English language, we formed a friendship. We would exchange glances in class and write each other notes. Then suddenly Craig started making me drawings- mainly pictures of Looney -Toons characters, because at that time I was obsessed with them (Tweety Bird, in particular).

It sounds so silly now, but I loved those drawings. I would go home and hang each one on the wall next to my bed, the corners proudly displaying Craig’s penmanship and the date.  Works of art of a young mind, tokens of young infatuation.

On the last day of school, I kissed Craig.  I had known him for an entire 6 months, so I thought it was time. I was also moving to another town and would be switching schools, and I knew I would probably never see him again.

We wrote letters to each other for a while, but eventually I ended up moving again and losing touch with him all together. My 12-year-old mind had the right instincts even then: we never did see each other again.

Mr. Dube was a lovely eleven year old. I wonder what he is doing with his life now. Maybe he’s married and drawing his wife cartoons of Looney-Toons characters, or even drawing them for his children…

Regardless, I hope that wherever you are, Mr. Dube, you are happy. And I hope someone cares for you enough to make you drawings of things you love. Or at least the equivalent wonderful thing of what that meant for me when I was a 12-year-old immigrant and what that means for you now.

You welcomed me into this country like a true American gentleman, and for that, I’m forever 12-yeard-old-giggly-girl kind of grateful.

Categories PoetryTags , ,

3 thoughts on “Mr. Dube

  1. LOL…great story….it’s totally you have courage for kissing him at 11 years old…lol…but the really first thing that came up my mind is that, if he’d someday, just for curiosity, put his name on google, will show up on the first page….that would be sooooo funny, maybe he’s living in CA too…lol…

    Daria tudo pra ver sua cara!


    1. Abell.. me poupe! hahha

      O pior que eu j procurei tanto por ele online, s por curiosidade mesmo, e nunca acho nada! Ou ele morreu ou virou agente do CIA!


      1. lol…Ana Paula “namorou” um agente da cia…dava um bom capitulo do livro tbm…ok, i know i’m dorky


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this:
search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close