There were no snowplow parents in the old days to clear a kid’s way in life and make sure that no situation ever threatened their self-esteem. On no occasion was this more apparent than on Valentine’s Day in sixth grade.
In those days you weren’t obligated to send a valentine to everyone in the class. You sent one to only those kids you liked, and so it was a popularity contest of sorts. And because sixth grade was the year when true love blossomed, Valentine’s Day was the perfect opportunity to confess your feelings to someone who otherwise might be clueless. Though a few kids made their own valentines—all by themselves—most of us bought the same package of valentines from the local drugstore. We all knew that while most of the cards were just friendly and even silly, there were one or two special cards that asked the big question. We all knew we each had the potential to receive one of those—or not.
Valentine’s Day eve I spread out all the cards, with their different cut-out shapes and varying messages, on the floor. I had my list beside me and I started matching up. The first pairing was easy. “Happy Valentine’s Day To My Best Friend” went to Ann Collver, from whom I was inseparable until eighth grade. I chose a bunch more girls I liked from the list and picked cards asking them to “Be (bumble bee) Mine” and other such messages. I sent a couple of noncommittal cards to friends who were boys, as opposed to boyfriends—an important sixth-grade distinction.
Now came the difficult part. There was a boy I liked. I liked him, liked him. Joe DeAngeles was a big kid with black curly hair and a kind of swarthy complexion. I’d hardly had a real conversation with him, but I found him thrilling. Should I send him the special card, the one that really said it: “Will You Be My Valentine?” and had a heart and no bumble bee for the “be,” which made it serious? Should I sign my name? The real dilemma was that girls weren’t supposed to make the first move in any boy-girl situation; it was always up to the boy to act first. I certainly didn’t want to be “forward.” And what if he didn’t like me back? I could sign “From a Secret Admirer,” but where would that get me?
When we walked into the classroom the next day, we deposited our valentines in the “mailbox,” a large cardboard carton with a slit in the top that we had decorated the day before. The party started with cupcakes and candy that parents had provided—such goodies as would never get past the front door of today’s elementary schools. Then a couple of kids were chosen to be the mailmen. As the rest of us sat at our desks, filled with dread and anticipation, the mailmen reached into the box for handfuls of cards and walked around the room delivering them.
I wasn’t worried about not getting any cards at all because I was certain I would get some from my girlfriends—we’d already agreed. I knew Ann would send me the same one I had sent her—but what if she didn’t? I figured Alden Myers would send me one. He was a smart kid whose house I passed on the way to school and who sometimes caught up to walk with me and Ann. And probably Norman Ayers because I tried to be nice to him. But would I get the one that really mattered? Would I get one from Joe and might it be the special one? Each time the mailman turned down the row of desks where I sat, I tried to look indifferent, but I was filled with anxiety. And each time the mailman did drop an envelope on my desk, I would feel the butterflies rise in my stomach. I would pull the card out with my eyes closed and then open them with hope fluttering. Would it be the one from Joe? (Spoiler alert: I don’t remember.)
I was too busy fretting about myself to notice the cards on anyone else’s desk or the expressions on others’ faces. Of course no one would ever say, but I’m sure there were kids who got only one or two valentines. Maybe even someone who didn’t get any. That was a heartache no one snowplowed for back then.
I suspect there was no Valentine’s Day party in seventh or eighth grades, as we rotated for classes and were probably deemed too old for such a thing. I would have seen less of Joe during those two years. And by ninth grade, my mother had enrolled me in a small school for girls.
