Sarita of the Riches

April is National Poetry Month. I finally decided to celebrate with “poem in your pocket day.” But backspace to a few months ago.

We have this friend named Christian. He’s six and he LOVES wearing pajamas. He hates wearing socks, a man after Albert Einstein's heart.

He came over to Jesse’s birthday party in January and apparently really enjoys our hallway and the big blue exercise ball.

In February, I went with his mom to see where the bishop's storehouse was and he asked where she was going and who she was going with:

Mom: “I’m going to the bishop’s storehouse with Sister Rich.”

Christian: “What’s the bishop’s store?"

Mom: “It’s a place where you go if you need help getting groceries.”

Christian: “You mean Sarita? Of the Riches? Is she poor? Can she not afford groceries”?

Later that month, his mom told me that before she came to pick me up to visit a sister in the ward, he asked where she was going. She told him she was going to our house:

Christian: “Wait, am I going?”

Mom: “No, why?”

Christian: “Cause their house is AWESOME.”

A few weeks ago, Christian told me that he does not like his mean teachers who yell at him all the time because he doesn’t write his name the way they want him to, or some stupid reason or another. Since he knows I’m a teacher, he suggested that I find a job at his school. I said I’d like that a lot more than teaching boring college students and that I’d make all the mean kids sit with their noses against the wall. He approved of that idea. 

He came over for dinner recently and all he ate was french fries with a small mountain of salt on top.

Then, last night, his mom informed me that Christian said the following after looking at our blog picture of us on the railroad tracks:

Christian: "Jesse and Sarita are doing something very dangerous!" 

She also told me that Christian hates his gym teacher. I don’t know why he hates her, but he’s smart, so he must have a good reason. The gym teacher hasn’t been to school in a while and people are hoping she won’t be returning.

Christian: “I hope Sarita Rich is a gym teacher!" 

Then later that night when he was in the bathroom brushing his teeth:

Christian: “Do Jesse and Sarita have a baby?”

Mom: "No, why do you ask?”

Christian: "I just want to meet him and say 'sup muchacho' because muchacho is another way to say bro."

So after I heard about “poem in your pocket day” for National Poetry Month, I wrote this for him:

 Idea adapted from John Grandits' Technically, It's Not My Fault

And this note:

Dear Christian, I heard your gym teacher is missing...sorry I can’t be your teacher. I hate pushups and running laps. I think I'm allergic to exercise. But you can sleep over any time you want.

P.S. Happy National Poetry Month! Today is “poem in your pocket day,” which means that if you carry this poem in your pocket, you’ll have at least 5 minutes of good luck.

I was told he wanted to save his poem and write me a letter back that said, “You don’t have to do push ups! If you’re the teacher you can do whatever you want!”