Mr. Dube

His name was Craig Dube. I mean, his real name, was Craig Dube.

I was eleven and he was two months older than me.

I know what you're thinking.

Of course I fell for him.

And before you start judging him based solely on his name, let me tell you that he had blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. And that he played baseball and Math was his favorite subject (I always did like the smart ones). But most importantly in the world of sixth graders, he did not have a girlfriend.

I barely spoke English. I was fresh from a plane and my English went as far as introducing myself and naming a variety of fruits. Oh, and also, thanks to a popular song in the 90s, informing anyone that would care to listen that the book was on the table. But I won’t bother you here with my foreignness, or the difficulties I encountered in a new country, in a new school, in what is already the most difficult years of any young girl’s life. I also apologize if this post doesn’t seem as juicy as Mr. Fun Sized. But I like to think it has its own allure.

Regardless of the fact that I thought Mr. Dube was the definition of good looks, he was not the most popular kid in school. For reasons I, obviously, cannot imagine. I adored him and was convinced, after first setting my eyes on him, that we would someday get married.

We never even got close.

Which I'm kind of grateful for now... can you imagine, having Dube as your last name?

But somehow, in those first few months I spent in the US, regardless of my almost non-existent knowledge of the English language, we formed a friendship. He started making me drawings- mainly pictures of Looney Tunes characters, because at that time I was obsessed with them (Tweety Bird, in particular). It sounds so silly now but I loved those drawings. I would go home and hang every single one on my wall, the corner of each proudly displaying Craig’s signature and the date. Work of arts of a young mind, tokens of young infatuation… Innocent love, so simple and easy. Those were the days.

But as we all know, young love is known not to last. And it is often gone as fast as it started.

On the last day of school of sixth grade, I kissed Craig. It happened in front of school, Coral Springs Middle, while other students stood by. And it was followed by cheers. Perhaps one of the few times I had such a good audience! Regardless, at that age, it was a courageous move on my part. But I did it mainly because I wanted Craig to remember me. I was moving to another town and would be switching schools, and I knew I would probably never see him again.

And yes. A kiss from me will make you remember me. Mr. Dube, if reading this, I'm sure is nodding his head vigorously and saying "hell yeah!".

We wrote letters to each other for a while, but eventually I ended up moving again and losing touch with him all together. My 12 year old mind had the right instincts even then: we never did see each other again.

Mr. Dube was a lovely tween. I wonder what he is doing with his life now. Maybe he’s married and drawing his wife cartoons of Looney Tunes characters, or even drawing them for his children…

Regardless, I hope that wherever you are, Mr. Dube, you are happy. And I hope someone loves you enough to make you drawings of things you love. Or at least the equivalent wonderful thing of what that meant for me when I was 12 and what that means for you now.

You welcomed me into this country like a true American gentleman, and for that, I’m forever, 12-yeard-old-giggly-girl kind of grateful.

Lots of love,

Gia