You Make My Light Shine

An incomplete cast listing of elementary school characters

I have a bad habit of looking back at my life like a tv show—sometimes it’s a sitcom. Sometimes it’s peak prestige television. Other times it’s cancelled after the pilot. Anyway, here are some of the characters from Uintah Elementary.

Man, I don't even know if he had a last name. He was just “Messy Marvin.” Everyday, he looked like his anthropomorphic bed had walked him into the school, reared up on its back legs, and just slid him, half-asleep, into his desk. And some days? It probably did. Who knows what was happening at home, but he was pretty good-natured for a kid whose nickname started with Messy. I don't know many Marvins. Maybe he was conceived to "Let's Get It On."

Ms. Ross, through first grade eyes, was enormous. Gargantuan. Like a puffed up, inflatable South Park character, if South Park had an amusement park and Ms. Ross had her own ride. Disneyland large. At the time, I wondered if her shirts were made from silky old Hawaiian- or floral-patterned parachutes. She was infamous for clutching your cheeks (face) between her squatty thumb and the rest of her sausage fingers, and vigorously shaking your chin back and forth when she was angry. I kept pretty quiet, though, so my cheeks remained unshaken. I did see her trademark gesture on other kids, though, and wish now I’d had the courage to say she shouldn’t be touching anybody’s face. I suppose there’s a lesson in there about what humans will allow to happen to others in order to avoid it happening to themselves. Especially when staring down the closest thing they’ll ever see to Ursula in their life.

Another first grade teacher, Ms. Oliver, wore intense makeup that would make the ancient, caked-upon British queens and Japanese geishas envious. Her face hadn't known real eyebrows since the late 70’s. Her hair was an impossibly smooth modern sculpture of storebought black dye and chemicals with otherworldly holding properties. And she was worshipped by her students. She was sweet and kind without being a pushover. Her fancy, ultra-made-up aesthetic rubbed off on the girls in her class too, who tried to emulate her fanciness. I doubt she discouraged the parrotry. She may have even enjoyed the idea of her unofficial flock of divas. Her class had to have been the fanciest-feeling first grade class in all of Salt Lake proper. I know her students, to this day, would swear to feeling like a million bucks in her class. Meanwhile, my class was all living in fear of getting our jaws dislocated by Ms. Ross.

Rita was the definitely the only black person in the first grade, maybe even at the entire school. Unfortunate for her (and for our retrospective, hopefully more-empathic guilt), Ms. Ross had us sing a song called "Rita, Put Your Black Shoes On." I remember—at recess—choruses of this song starting spontaneously in that terrible teasing nasal shrill that only first graders seem to master. The biting emphasis put on RITA and BLACK were not entirely lost on me, even back then. Poor Rita. Like Marvin, she was also really nice and managed to shrug off the attention. Rita could kick the living hell out of the soccer ball. Pretty sure she won more than a few soccer and kickball games singlefootedly. Maybe the power of her kick and the tease-singing were connected.

Billy was my best friend since first grade. Until a few years ago, we still went on a trip together every year to see Neil Young (the end of the tradition is Neil’s fault, not ours). We recently had a multi-paragraph text thread about the Grateful Dead, John Mayer, Sinead O’Connor, and which American band had the greatest songbook in history¹. All of this continued friendship is all the more impressive when you consider that, in third grade, Billy was the leader of the prestigious C-Team (based, I believe, on the then-current television program The A-Team) and coldly kicked me out because I had copied some pattern of his on our class computer’s Logo program.

This was not the actual thing I copied. I found this on Wikipedia. But this is in the same vein. The class had one computer and, if you finished your regular school work early, you could sometimes go mess around with the programming language Logo on this machine.

Steve was the leader of the T-Team² and, eager to stoke the rivalry between the two alphabetically-inclined squads, immediately granted me membership. The T-Team was a little more rough and tumble. They were the far more anarchic, punk rival of the C-Team. I lasted about one and a half recesses in the chaos of the T-Team before Billy reinvited me to the C-Team and I accepted. Steve was not thrilled.

Matt was my other best friend. I don’t know that I ever would’ve talked to a girl if not for Matt. No one, at any point in my life, would credibly accuse me of being “cool.” But Matt helped ensure I wasn’t hopeless. His family’s favorite movie was Top Gun. They seemed like they were watching it (or Days of Our Lives—long live Hope and Bo!) every time I went over. Matt’s dad was military and police. Once, his dad was dropping us off for basketball camp and we stopped at Circle K to get, like, OJ and a donut. Some guy was giving the clerk a hard time and started to get aggressive. I turned around for one second and Matt’s dad had the guy neutralized on the ground, making him promise to not come back to the Circle K for the rest of the day. Pretty sure, military-wise, he was part of an airborne unit or something; at his funeral, they had the big gun salute and everything. So the Top Gun thing makes more sense. Matt and I would sit around for hours, listening to U2 and Led Zeppelin and Bob Marley and Eric Clapton, and talking about girls.

The school was quite proud of Senator/Astronaut Jake Garn being an alum.

But the students were all proud of Colin. Because Colin saved his little sister from a kidnapper. On the way to school one day, a creep pulled up next to Colin and his sister, and beckoned them to his car. Colin said “no thanks” but the guy put the car into Park, got out, and was reaching for Colin’s sister. (Terrifying.) Colin started yelling “HELP!”, told his sister to run, then he threw something (a rock? a brick?) at the guy and ran to the school. He was a legend to us.

Mr. Fulton came to school hungover with surprising frequency. Dark glasses. Winces. Bags beneath the eyes. When the class would get unruly, he was known to quote Talking Heads, “Hey, this ain’t no party. This ain’t no disco. This ain’t no foolin’ around.” He was also a kid favorite. On Fridays, about a half hour before the bell, he’d let one of us pick a cassette tape to play. He knew as well as we did that the last half hour on a Friday was worthless. Everyone loved Mr. Fulton.

Dan came to school on Halloween in sixth grade as a hippie. I saw him, after the big student parade, sitting against the wall under the coat hooks, laughing a little deliriously in his bell bottoms, bandanas, fringed vest, and tie-dye t-shirt. Turns out his pipe had actual marijuana in it. I don’t know if Mr. Fulton knew about Dan’s shenanigans. If he did, I don’t know if he’d be proud, upset, or just confiscate the stuff.

Our principal, Mr. Newman, could’ve come straight out of 80’s Hollywood Central Casting. He looked the part in every last way, from the sheen-matted hair to the thick black glasses to the tense toothy grin. Rick Moranis vibes all day. But he was a kind man, not the kind of principal who seems put out by the presence of kids. He left for another school at some point.

Dr. Harding was his replacement. He also looked straight out of Central Casting. I got to go to lunch with him once at Hires because I was student of the month. It was awkward. Also he had these Uintah School Bucks created, which I’m sure could go towards treats or jump ropes or something if you were spotted on your best behavior:

Clinton was an indian kid. Today we’d say Native American or, if you're really on the ball, the actual tribe. Clinton called himself indian, if I remember correctly. He was a pretty cool kid except for that one time he kicked me in the face. But you'd say that about anybody. I’m sure I had it coming.

Shane could breakdance. This was currency in a world of kids who would, for the rest of their lives, clap on the 1 and the 3.

Justin was my Catholic friend. You can see a theme emerging here, where I remember people who weren’t the majority (white, Mormon). Such was growing up in a mostly-white, mostly-Mormon neighborhood. Justin had cable tv at home and, thus, MTV and so was the first place I ever saw Peter Gabriel’s groundbreaking music videos for “Big Time” and “Sledgehammer” as well as Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.” It was also the first place I ever ate chocolate chip pancakes, which his mom (a superb cook) made us the morning after a sleepover. Justin was really good at basketball. After we left elementary school and went our own ways, Justin and I would play against each other—first in Jr. Jazz as he went to Cosgriff Catholic School and later in high school as he went to Judge Memorial. He was a competitor all the way through. Had aMcEnroe-esque way of dealing with refs. Hated losing. And that drive made him really good.

Erin and Nicky were the first crushes I ever had, both in first grade. I think both of them lived on the same street, down the steep hill from school where I’d walk on my way home everyday. That anticipation-heavy walk past their yards was my introduction to what it meant to “cruise someone’s house”, a tradition I would maintain with my crushes for a good decade-plus afterwards. Erin moved away, to Idaho maybe? I met up with her again, years later, in our church congregation, about a decade or so ago. She had married the literal nicest guy, who taught the best Sunday School lessons you ever heard and who, one year for Mother’s Day, gave her a gift certificate that she would not have to wash a single dish until the next Mother’s Day. You can bet there wasn’t a husband in the neighborhood who didn’t hear about that.

These two rocker brothers (names escape me) who lived, like, 6 houses away from the school were terrifying. Terrifying why? Long hair! Iron Maiden t-shirts! Pins on their jean jackets! Having watched the most recent season of Stranger Things, I had to reevaluate how much of my fear was projection and how much of it was merited.

At Anthony’s birthday party sleepover, I saw a naked woman for the first time. Not in person. Anthony’s older brother probably had a Playboy magazine? I recall being curious/human enough to get a solid, confusing glimpse of some 80’s big-haired woman doing a naked pose I was ill-equipped to process, and guilty/nervous/rulekeepy³ enough to then avert my eyes as my friends thumbed through the rest of the pages. The feelings I had gawking at some naked woman in a room with a bunch of other, um, “interested” dudes made it clear I was never gonna step foot in a strip club. Not my vibe, turns out. When I got back home the next day, my dad asked me what movie we had watched and, after unsuccessfully trying to conjure up a lie, I confessed it was The Breakfast Club. Which was true. We weren’t allowed to watch R-rated movies, so he was not thrilled and I heard about it. Imagine my relief when the interrogation stopped there.

Unrelated: our kids don’t do sleepovers.

Michael was a violin prodigy—I’m pretty sure he performed at Carnegie Hall and for sure was involved with the Utah Symphony in some way. I vaguely remember him getting a ton of excused absences and early-releases to do violin stuff. Today he’d probably be home-schooled. He was stunningly socially awkward and, thus, teased relentlessly. Michael was also one of the few Jewish kids at our school. I remember his mom bringing in some dreidels and maybe latke cookies around Hannukkah and all the kids, kindly I guess, trying to make it seem like Michael wasn’t an outcast while his mom was there. Looking back, we were all just probably saving face, Eddie Haskel-style. Little weasels. I would bet money that Michael is wildly successful, probably living in Palo Alto or something.

Alison H (remember when you had to delineate kids with the same first name by using the first letter of their last name? I was Paul J more than a couple times) was my wife for about 2 days, mostly just to facilitate a public playground kiss. We’ve already covered that. Alison H lives in Colorado now, goes to a lot of concerts, and teaches fitness classes. If she saw my gut today, I bet she’d thank her CrossFit stars that we got our non-marriage annulled.

Allison F was training to be a gymnast. A handful of us went to one of her meets. We were all wowed to see her pull off all the tricks on the vault and bars and whatever. We cheered pretty loud, I guess. We quickly (randomly?) picked out some rival girl and made her the villain of the meet. I don’t know that she did anything to earn our ire, except probably excel. We didn’t boo or anything, but we were putting out sixth grade bad vibes for sure. You sit there, as a sixth grader, and you have no real sense of the insane hours those girls were putting in to pull that stuff off. The hours. The stress. The expectations. None of the gymnasts at that meet later became Olympians, which is pretty disappointing given the intensity of the parents that night. Seemed like it was guaranteed for at least one of them.

Jamie was a ringleader. If Uintah Elementary had had a mafia, she would’ve been the don(na). She seemed like she had a grasp on the mechanizations of schooled life. She orchestrated my betrothal and officiated my subsequent short-lived marriage to Alison H. When we were decorating for a spook alley, somehow she was the one who chose the music (the Stand By Me soundtrack). You know the person who seems like they’re always in on whatever’s happening? That was Jamie.

Utah songwriter Michael Maclean wrote our school song. They had us all gather in the auditorium for an assembly where Maclean solicited ideas from the students and made it seem like he was writing the song right there, on the spot. In retrospect, I don’t think it was fully spontaneous but maybe it was! Either way, the song’s chorus went:

Uintah, you make my life (light?) shine.
Uintah, you're makin' me smart.
Uintah, you're opening my mind.
I love you with all of my heart!

It was only a matter of milliseconds before some sixth grader had ingeniously changed the last line to “I love you with all of my fart.” Classic.

Speaking of farts, Mrs. Sudweeks farted in class more than once. She tried to play it off with a “gas is only natural, children” but the truth of her statement was vastly outweighed by the utter hilariousness of an authority figure farting. In fourth grade, farts > truth. That’s just a stone-cold fact.

The unicorn was our mascot. This was always a source of shame for the boys, who would’ve preferred something more traditionally violent (Warriors! Pillagers! Bloodthirsty Murderers!) or at least….dangerous (Lions! Tigers! Sharp Knives! Eating & Then Swimming Without Waiting The Prescribed Amount of Time!).

Marie was your textbook overachiever. So, so smart. We were all in ELP/debate (Extended Learning Program) together, which was basically a little 10-student club of the “smarter” kids from our grade that got to go out to one of the trailer classrooms and work on extra projects a couple afternoons each week. I think they call it Gifted & Talented or something now and have whole schools devoted to it. We got a couple hours a week. Our big fifth grade project was to make a pop-up book. My friend Matt & I thought we were really good at drawing so we figured we had a pretty good chance at “winning” (there was a year-end presentation with judges and everything). Ours was about two adventurers named Jungle Joe & Safari Steve. We put a lot of time into the story’s adventure and illustrations and some admittedly rudimentary pop-up mechanics. We were gobsmacked the day of the presentation when we showed up and Marie and her partner (Courtney? Samantha? Becky?) presented their book with, basically, a dramatic reenactment involving actors in shiny space costumes and UFO set pieces. We were under the impression that everyone was just going to read their books and demonstrate the pop-up functionality to the judges. Nope. Marie and her partner did a whole play with background music and Wes Anderson-ian dramatic flair. And, yes, they won. I ran into Marie a decade later when she was studying at Harvard and I was in Boston for the summer, shlepping copies of Barenaked Ladies albums as a clerk at the local Tower Records. Who could’ve predicted those two life directions?

It’s impossible for me to think of Mr. Hermansen without picturing this guy.

Come to think of it, I’ve never seen Mr. Hermansen and “Number One” in the same room at the same time. I bet you haven’t either.

Livia was the new girl. And she was dangerous, man. She seemed to be, like, 9 feet tall—the embodiment of what they’d tell us during the Maturation Program about girls developing earlier than boys, she seemed like a teenager—and was someone who simply did not care what you thought. She was my first real experience with a woman who a) didn’t care what you thought, b) scared me, and c) was outwardly sexual (the latter two were likely connected). It was all probably (mostly?) talk but even the faintest suggestion of sexuality was shocking in what, fifth or sixth grade when I would’ve passed out if I’d so much as held a girl’s hand. It would be fascinating to see her then through the lens of now. Was she even edgy at all? Playing a part? Working through trauma? Who knows? I just know that most of the boys in our grade feared her.

Ernie was a new kid too. It wasn’t too long before he was accused of stealing a bunch of different kids’ Transformers (hot at the time). The entire grade was on the verge of lighting torches and waving pitchforks at him. He was holed up—like Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid—in the Boys bathroom, cornered and nowhere to go. As someone who didn’t have any Transformer skin in the game⁴, I went in there and leveled with him, “look, if you actually took the Transformers, you just gotta give them back.” Tears in his eyes, he told me they were gonna hate him and I couldn’t argue with that. But they already did. If he came clean, maybe he had a shot at a second chance. If he kept the toys, there was no chance any of it would end. He gave the Transformers back. I don’t remember much of a second chance, though.

Sascha introduced me to Madonna. We went to her house a few times on Friday afternoons and she’d put on “True Blue” like it was Sgt. Pepper. Maybe it was.

Mr. Rogers was probably the funniest teacher at the school, but with a pointedness, an edge that could serrate you on the wrong day. One day during Reading, this kid David’s face went pale, then green, and then he puked across about four desks. Somebody laughed (probably nervously, but still) and, as David was being escorted to the office to call his parents and we were all basking in the afterstench, Mr. Rogers let the laugher have it, “What if that was you? You think he wanted to do that? He feels like crap. And you made him feel even worse.” Mr. Rogers had a round beer belly, his armpits consistently soaked with sweat. One morning, he didn’t show up to school and they told us he had a heart attack. We didn’t find out the truth for another year, maybe two: he took his own life.

Mr. Wills was my favorite teacher. Maybe ever. Top 5 for sure. He would sing “Hey Jude” with us on his guitar and sometimes he’d show up at recess or PE to play soccer with us. He had that unusual gift of being able to be really kind but also demanding the best from you. I loved nearly every day of sixth grade because of Mr. Wills.

1. We did not reach a verdict.

2. There’s a good chance the T stood for “Tough.”

3. Not a word.

4. My parents would only buy me Go-Bots, which were the Amazon Basics version of Transformers. I know. I was so deprived as a kid. It was basically child abuse.