Sunday, December 20, 1998

The best gifts might not look so great at first

By Sharon Randall

The best gift is like Christmas, sacrificial. It's an offering not only of love and awareness, but also a gift of oneself. And it may not look like much at first.

When I was 10, my fifth grade teacher saddled me with a boy named Ray. That's not his real name, but rest assured, Ray was as real as real gets. She did it for spite, made me help him with his lessons, not for his benefit, but to teach me this lesson: Never embarrass your teacher by correcting her spelling (or grammar or math or anything else) or she'll embarrass you to no end.

Most of us were poor, more or less, but Ray was by far the poorest, the slowest, the smelliest boy in class. He sat head down at the back of the room, never asked or answered questions. Not that anybody ever asked him anything. He was ignored like the flag in the corner, only no one ever pledged him allegiance.

The one thing Ray could do was draw. Everybody said so. That boy drew like nobody's business, pictures of horses running wild and free. He drew in class, all day long, until I was forced upon him.

It didn't take me long to figure out Ray was not as dumb as he looked. He just couldn't read a lick. When I told the teacher, she said, "Oh, well, he's happy just to draw." I decided that I'd teach Ray to read, then he could help me correct her spelling.

Sometimes, even a passion for revenge is not enough to right a wrong.

It's not easy teaching someone to read, especially if all he wants to do is draw horses. By December Ray still couldn't read a lick. Made me want to pull out my hair. Whenever I caught him staring at me, I'd look in his eyes and see that somebody was in there -- somebody smart enough to learn how to read, if only he had half a chance.

Avoided gift exchange

Ray never took part in the class Christmas gift exchange. But this year, when the hat was passed, he dove right in and drew out my name.

The class erupted like a bunch of monkeys, started singing about Ray and me sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Thought I would die, but I didn't.

Guess I was getting used to it.

A few weeks later at the Christmas party, Ray gave me a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. All the monkeys shouted, "Open it!" Inside was a picture he had drawn of a girl who looked a lot like me, riding a horse, of course; and three plastic bracelets. "You can get those free with a tank of gas at the Texaco," chirped a monkey, and all the others laughed.

I slipped Ray's bracelets on my arm and said thanks, but I never wore them after that.

Years after Ray dropped out of school, I heard he'd gotten tired of seeing his daddy beat his mother, so he'd shot the old man and gone to prison.

I dug the bracelets out of a drawer, held them up to the light and noticed for the first time, Ray's initials scratched next to mine.

I lost those bracelets long ago, but I remember them every Christmas, along with the boy who gave them to me.

The best gift is like Christmas, humble as a poor girl giving birth in a barn. It may not look like much, at first. But it's a gift once and for always.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards. Her column regularly runs on Sunday.

Scripps Howard News Service