What Has Happened to Our Children: Part 2

By Matthew Dicks  /  Illustrated By Sean Wang 

It’s snowing as I climb into my bed. The white stuff drifts to the ground, turning the lawn white as I turn out the light. I reach under the pillow to confirm that it’s still there: a spoon. I have a spoon under my pillow. My mother says it’s silly to think a spoon under my pillow will increase the chances of a snow day, but a snow day is far too precious to take any chances. I’m willing to do anything to improve my probability of a day without long division, Mr. Bougery’s calisthenics and Mr. Morin’s boring science lectures.

I’m also wearing my pajamas inside out. An hour ago, I ran around my house five times. Ten minutes before that, I flushed a full tray of ice cubes down the toilet and placed a penny in the freezer.

All of my bases—as far as I know—are covered. Every superstitious ritual is complete. Some of my friends are dumb enough to believe in just one superstition. They argue that the spoon under the pillow or the penny in the freezer is the only real snow-day insurance policy.

I think betting on one horse is stupid. I believe in betting on them all.

Four decades later, my students are still doing many of these same things to coax a snow day from the winter gods because the preciousness of the snow day has not diminished over the years, not for them nor me, their teacher.

I love a snow day—just as much as I did as a boy—and though I no longer participate in these age-old superstitions, it’s only because I know that many children are doing so on my behalf.

Besides, magic works better for kids than adults. Everyone knows that.

Many of my colleagues despise a snow day, knowing that every day off in January and February means an extra day of school in June, but I know something that these colleagues do not: a day off now is always better than a day off later.

I could get hit by a bus before June. A bear could maul me. An asteroid could wipe out all life on this planet. People who don’t love snow days believe in the foolish certainty of a tomorrow. I know better. I’ve seen too many disaster movies, read too many post-apocalyptic novels and experienced too many personal brushes with death to know that nothing is guaranteed. I’ll take my days whenever I can get them.

But things have changed since I was a boy. Today, when I open my eyes in the wee hours of the morning, I simply look at my phone and find—or tragically don’t find—a text message letting me know if I will be enjoying the freedom of a snow day.

It’s convenient, and for those foolish enough to remain in bed and “sleep in” with a glorious day of freedom before them, this convenience allows them to roll over and go back to sleep; however, so much of the ritual, anticipation and joy of the snow day has been stolen from the experience.

When I was a boy, my siblings and I would awake and run to the windows to see how much snow had fallen. Weather forecasts in the 1980s were not nearly as accurate as today, so the amount of snow that had fallen overnight was always a mystery. Would it be a dusting or a foot? We never knew.

If enough snow had fallen to offer the possibility of a snow day, we would tumble down the stairs into the living room, where we would turn on the radio and tune into WBRU, which would list the school districts with a snow day at the top and bottom of every hour in alphabetical order.

I grew up in Blackstone, Mass., so we would be early in the listing. This was great if you caught the list on time, but if you tuned in mid-list, it meant waiting a full 30 minutes—936 years in childhood time—before the list began again. And when that baritone voice began reading the list of lucky school districts, we crowded around the radio as if our proximity to the device might increase our chances of good news.

I have rarely been in greater suspense in my life than when I was listening to that voice begin reading the list of towns: Abington. Andover. Arlington. Ashfield. Ashland. Attleboro. Bellingham. Belmont. Billerica… And then, on the very best of days: Blackstone. That simple word, perhaps more than any other word in my life, sparked so much joy for me.

And when Blackstone wasn’t spoken by that God-like voice, all hope was not lost. We would wait, frozen in space in time, waiting still, for sometimes, on especially blessed days, the man on the radio would reach the end of the list, reading off towns like Westborough, Whitman and Wrentham and then say, “And the following school districts were just added as I was reading the list..”; we would hold our breath, hoping against hope that the head honcho in the Blackstone school system had called the station mid-list to report that our school would also be experiencing a snow day.

That happened twice during my childhood. Two times. I remember both times vividly. I have rarely been so ecstatic. In those two moments, I felt like the universe was winking at me, letting me know that I was not nearly as small as I often felt.

Then came the day that has gone down in the history of my family as my ultimate betrayal: the moment I seemingly transformed from a hopeful boy to a clinical, evil teenage monster.

Snow had fallen overnight; it was enough for a snow day but not enough for it to be a certainty, so my siblings and I tumbled down the stairs to the radio for the ritual crowding, leaning and hoping. But this time, as the baritone voice began reading the names, I looked into the eyes of my brothers and sisters, all younger than me and perhaps a little more innocent, and I had an idea. The cruelest of ideas. An idea so horrific and unwarranted that I still wonder to this day what I was thinking. I still cannot comprehend the malice required to think this thought, but I think I did, and almost instantly, I decided to act upon it.

As the radio announcer began reading the list, I shifted slightly to the right, away from my customary spot in the group’s center. I inched ever so slowly to the circle’s edge, then I reached my arm out, waiting, biding my time.

“Attleboro,” the man said. “Bellingham. Belmont. Billerica—.”

That is when I pulled the power cord, yanking it from the wall, stopping the flow of electricity to the radio, bringing instant silence to the room.

My brothers and sisters didn’t understand what had happened at first. Perhaps they thought the power had gone out. Snow had accumulated on the lines, bringing them down into the street, but then my sister, Kelli, looked to me, perhaps for an answer to this mystery from her biggest, wisest brother. She saw the power cord in my hand, the smile on my face, and she knew.

I had done it. I had stolen this moment from them. I had denied them potential joy. I had doomed them to 936 childhood years of waiting before that man on the radio would begin the list again.

She did not stare at me with anger, rage, or even sadness. It was unadulterated betrayal, disappointment beyond measure and a breaking of a childhood trust that I would never fully repair.

I don’t remember if we enjoyed a snow day that day. I can’t recall if we spent the day throwing snowballs at one another and digging snow tunnels out of the plowed drifts. All I can remember is the look on my sister’s face. I had sacrificed everything for a joke. A prank. An act of cruelty beyond measure.

I learned something that day that I will never forget: the sanctity of a snow day cannot be overstated. The preciousness of a snow day must be preserved at all costs. A day of unexpected freedom for a child—and yes, for me as a teacher—is a glorious gift from the weather gods that must be cherished, appreciated, and never diminished.

Let my act of treachery serve as a reminder to us all: few things are as pure and beautiful as a snow day. Do nothing ever to mar its perfection or tarnish its legend.

Matthew Dicks is an elementary school teacher, bestselling novelist and a record 55-time Moth Story SLAM champion. His latest books are Twenty-one Truths About Love and The Other Mother.

Sean Wang, an MIT architecture graduate, is author of the sci-fi graphic novel series, Runners. Learn more at seanwang.com.