Poetry and Oranges

I am particularly fond of a student in my 1^st period class. His name is Quasar Pina (yes, it's an pseudonym but his real name is just as awesome). He is probably about 4'7'' with a faint downy mustache and big half moon smile. He speaks in an incredibly soft voice and checks his grades on the computer in the back of the room everyday before class.

Earlier this week, the students in Quasar's class where given a homework assignment to find and bring in a poem to share with some of the other students. Quasar brought in “Oranges” by Gary Soto.

Oranges

Gary Soto

The first time I walked

with a girl, I was twelve,

cold, and weighted down

with two oranges in my jacket.

December. Frost cracking

beneath my steps, my breath

before me, then gone,

as I walked toward

her house, the one whose

porch light burned yellow

night and day, in any weather.

A dog barked at me, until

she came out pulling

at her gloves, face bright

with rouge, I smiled,

touched her shoulder, and led

her down the street, across

a used car lot and a line

of newly planted trees,

until we were breathing

before a drugstore. We

entered, the tiny bell

bringing a saleslady

down a narrow aisle of goods.

I turned to the candies

tiered like bleachers.

And asked what she wanted -

light in her eyes, a smile

starting at the corners

of her mouth. I fingered

a nickle in my pocket,

and when she lifted a chocolate

that cost a dime,

I didn't say anything.

I took the nickle from

my pocket, then an orange,

and set them quietly on

the counter. When I looked up,

the lady's eyes met mine,

and held them, knowing

very well what it was all

about.

Outside,

A fews cars hissing past,

fog hanging like old

coats between the trees.

I took my girl's hand

in mine for two blocks,

then released it to let

her unwrap the chocolate.

I peeled my orange

that was so bright against

the gray of December

that, from some distance,

someone might have thought

I was making a fire in my hands.

Quasar was so excited to work with this poem. He called me over at the beginning of class to show it to me, and raised his hand throughout the period to point out his favorite parts of the poem and to make sure that he was writing the answers on his worksheet just right.

Under the theme section he wrote something along the lines of, “The poem means that he loves the girl and love is worth trading an orange.” This may not be exactly what Gary Soto was going for but Quasar can feel the love in the poem: the love that Soto feels for this girl, the love of the generous saleslady. And I think it's because he can sense this love – though he can't fully express where it comes from – that Quasar so adores this poem.

It's wonderful thing, and a brilliant end to my week, seeing the quiet joy, generosity, and affection in a poem reflected on the face of one of my students. I wish I could make them all understand what Quasar has stumbled upon on his own. I wish they could all see that poetry, even literature in general, doesn't have to be work. Sometimes it is the excitement of young love or the altruism of a stranger. But for today, this one student is enough.