Let Their Spirits Dance by Stella Pope Duarte Page A

can talk to him without going for his throat. “There’s a pencil stuck on your ear.”
    â€œOh thanks, Teresa. I was working on some bubble sheets. Deadlines—there’s so many deadlines! We just got through with state testing, and now they want us to restructure all the district tests. You wouldn’t be interested in working on the committee, would you?”
    â€œI was on the committee that made the ones they’re restructuring! A fine thank-you for all the work we did. But I guess they have to spend district money somehow before the year’s over.”
    I listen to angry voices in the next room. Shirley, the school secretary, walks in dragging one of the fourth-grade boys by the arm. I secretly thank God I’m not a fourth-grade teacher.
    â€œOh, no, not Jason again!” says Mr. H., spilling coffee on his white slacks.
    â€œHe was out fighting again at recess. Eric is in the nurse’s office. Jason gave him a whopper of a bloody nose.” Jason squirms out of Shirley’s grasp as I walk out. His reputation for notorious behavior is known throughout the district. Last year, teachers from other schools in the district pitched in and paid his mother’s rent so she wouldn’t move into their area. The fifth-grade teachers have already drawn straws to decide who will get Jason next year, and there are rumors that the loser is resigning. The other teachers are thinking of picketing to stop the resignation.
    I watch Mr. H. stick the pencil stub back on his ear. Keeping the assistant principal busy is another ploy used by the “ousting committee” to overwork Mr. H. More power to the “ousting committee” and Annie Get Your Guns!
    I walk out into the school office and see the huge glass cabinet with mementos of Pancho Jimenez. In one of them, he’s standing in a cowboy outfit with his mother, Basilia Jimenez Chagolla, and his younger sister, Maria del Pilar. He was the only son of his mother. His father was killed in an accident months before Pancho was born. Pancho could have received a deferment as a sole surviving son but refused to do so. There’s another picture showing President Nixon presenting Pancho’s mother with the Medal of Honor in 1970. Pancho’s gravesite in Mexico was not decorated with the headstone of a Medal of Honor recipient until many years later due to the unpopularity of the Vietnam War. Pictures of Arizona’s three other Medal of Honor recipients, Jay M. Vargas, Maj. U.S. Marine Corps, Nicky D. Bacon, Sgt. U.S. Army, and Oscar P. Austin, PFC U.S. Marine Corps, also hang on separate frames on the wall. A real uniting of Arizona’s best in Vietnam.
    Clara, the office assistant, hands me a pink telephone message as I walk up to the front desk. “Your husband, I mean your ex-husband-to-be, called an hour ago and said he needs to talk to you before you leave school.” I take the message, crumple it, and throw it in the trash. Instantly, I am filled with remorse as I watch Clara’s eyes glitter with anticipation of new gossip.
    â€œBy the way, Teresa, do you want to be called Mrs. Alvarez, or Ms. Ramirez?” She puts an inflection on the word “Ms.” Clara reminds me of a vulture asking its dying victim if there are any last words.
    â€œMrs. Alvarez for now. It would be too hard for the kids to try to call me anything else so late in the year. Next year I’ll use Ramirez.”
    â€œMust be hard. I mean the divorce and all…but I’m glad you made it back in one piece. I mean you look great…I guess what happened over the holidays was a real nightmare, maybe…” Her voice trails off as if she wants me to fill in the blanks.
    â€œYeah, it was hard.” All of a sudden I feel tired. Tired of thinking about the divorce, Ray, Sandra, the kids, my mother, and now Jesse.
    Clara loves rumors, thrives on rumors. I read the words of the latest gossip on her face: