In 1958, I entered first grade and discovered Valentine's Day on a grand scale.
For weeks we cut hearts out of red construction paper. We hung them on blackboards, windows, desks. Our classroom looked like a giant valentine as we waited for the day we exchanged cards.
My mother allowed me to select a box of cards—those flimsy ones with little, plain white envelopes. I picked up each box and shook it to see what cards appeared in the cellophane window. Growing impatient, my mother said, "Pick one! All the boxes are the same."
Generally I believed what my mother told me, but had she seen how different the contents of each box were? I picked up another box.
"We'll take that one."
She marched off across the dime store to a sales clerk. I hoped that she had picked a good bunch of cards.
At home, I dumped all of them on the kitchen table. I looked at each card and read the verse before I placed it in one of three piles: Best, OK, and Stupid.
Pulling out the mimeographed list of my classmates, I placed a one, two, or three next to each name. The numbers corresponded to the piles. I counted the number ones on the list and then counted the valentines in that pile. I held my breath. Would I have enough "best" valentines? Or would I need to sort through the "OK" cards and select one or more to move up a notch? I never knew until I was done.
With my fat pencil, I wrote my name in big, bold letters on the back of each card and then the name of my classmate on an envelope. That big pencil required lots of physical energy to use. By the time I had addressed the envelopes for groups one and two, my hand cramped.
"Mom, I'm finished."
I pointed to all the envelopes.
"Is that a valentine for everyone in your class?"
"No, but my hand hurts. I don't like the rest of them, anyway."
She pulled up a chair next to me.
"I'll sit here while you sign the rest of the valentines and put them in envelopes," she said. "Everyone in your class will receive one from you. Even the people you don't like."
"But, Mom…."
She looked at me.
"How would you feel if someone didn't give you a card?"
I couldn't fathom that idea.
"They like me!"
"But what if someone didn't like you, and didn't give you a card? Would that hurt your feelings?"
I kept writing. Everyone got a signed card from me every year in which we exchanged valentines.
On the day the teacher handed out the valentines, someone always came up short in the count of cards received. Someone always cried. Sometimes that person was me. I came to understand how a cheap paper valentine could mean so much to someone.
Much later, I appreciated that my mother kept me from causing such pain. A simple gesture of kindness or an act of inclusion can change a life.
I say, "Valentines for everyone."
