The Gold Star

“You are each to write a poem,” the teacher said. The girls in the third-grade class smiled at each other and quickly started writing. But the boys looked uncomfortable and wondered what they could write, especially Roberto.

The teacher told them that the one who wrote the best poem about mother would have a gold star pasted by his or her name on the blackboard. Roberto half closed his eyes, trying to imagine what it would be like to see his name with a big, shining golden star beside it. But his dream lasted only a moment for he was sure that no poem he wrote would ever be judged as the best one.

Roberto looked at the blank sheet his teacher had given him. He bounced his pencil on its eraser end and then started to make some marks on the paper. I could easily draw a star, he decided, lots of them; but that wouldn’t mean very much, not nearly as much as if a big, gold one were placed beside my name on the blackboard!

Debbie waved her hand. “I’m through,” she announced when the teacher called on her. “May I read my poem now?”

“All the poems will be read at three o’clock this afternoon and you may read yours first,” the teacher promised.

Promptly at three, the teacher called on Debbie who stood up proudly and read:

Mothers buy dresses and shoes and things.

They give us parties and rings.

We wish them a Happy Mother’s Day.

We hope mothers are here to stay.

Bobby was next:

Mothers make clown suits and lemonades

And fix sore toes with keen band-aids;

But there’s one thing she can’t do, and I wish she could—

That’s learn to like bugs, like mothers should.

Eagerly the children read the poems they had written for their mothers, all except Roberto. “I can’t make a poem,” he explained. “The words don’t rhyme.” The children exchanged amused smiles. “But I’ve written what I feel,” he continued, and then Roberto read:

Mothers … mothers make …

Well, mothers make you hurt inside …

When you haven’t got one.

He looked around at the boys and girls, expecting them to laugh because he couldn’t write a poem. They looked back at him. There was no laughter in their eyes.

And everyone in the third grade was glad when their teacher put a big, gold star on the blackboard next to the name of Roberto José Martinez.

Illustrated by Mike Muir