“Mittuh Think! Mittuh Think!” I was walking in Codman Square, Dorchester, on a Saturday afternoon, when I heard the voices of two enthusiastic young elementary-school-aged boys, calling my name from across the street.  My first reaction was delight in the fact that any of the children in whose classrooms I had labored over the past year as a substitute teacher would remember my name, even if they didn’t pronounce it correctly. Working as a substitute teacher in 27 different Boston Public elementary schools over the course of 18 months, one meets hundreds of students and can’t help but wonder if one’s brief presence in their lives might make any impact, or at least even leave a bit of an impression.

in a lowered voice, Kyle said, “we don’t do that thing anymore.” “What thing?” I asked. “You know,” Devon jumped in. “That thing we was drawing on the ground with our fingers.”

The way the boys were calling my name conveyed to me instantly that they knew me from my role as a sub teacher. When I had previously worked with preschool-aged kids in childcare centers in Cambridge, Jamaica Plain, and Dorchester during my first few years out of college, kids in all the centers called teachers by our first names. It was only in the public schools that I had become “Mr. Fink.” Or as quite a few of them said it, omitting the s sound,  “Mittuh.” The use of the honorific was the first proof that they had met me as a substitute teacher. Additionally, it was the way they said “think” rather than “Fink.”  Even though I made a practice of printing my name neatly on the blackboard or whiteboard and saying my name out loud as I introduced myself to each new classroom, I discovered that many students mispronounced it. It seemed to be especially the African American kids who found it easier or more comfortable to substitute the TH sound instead of the F.   So when I looked across the street in Codman Square, I was not surprised to see two boys of color, about nine years old, calling out and waving in what I would describe as an aggressively friendly manner. “Mittuh Think! Mittuh Think!”

1. It was a great feeling that they knew me, but I had met too many kids in too many classrooms, and I was never good at facial recognition anyway. I would finish my sub career with an extended gig at the John Marshall School in Dorchester, where I took over a third-grade classroom for three solid months from spring break to the end of the school year. From that cohort, I can still, 50 years later, picture Johnny, and Kelly, and Julie Ann, Antonio, and David and a few of the other students. But before that, I was usually called to one school for a single day, and then a different one the next morning. I might or might not find myself called back to the same building a few weeks or a couple of months later, and even then, it was very seldom to the same classroom as before. I can’t pull up a single name from those experiences, outside of a Charlie, a boy I had worked with for a whole year in my daycare class when he was four, who then reappeared as if by magic, in a second- or third—grade class where I subbed.

It was affirming to know that two boys from one of the schools remembered my name and were apparently eager to make themselves known to me again. As soon as the traffic allowed, I crossed to their side of the street.  “This Mittuh Think,”one boy said to the adult who was accompanying the two boys; she seemed to be his mother but could have been an auntie. ”We had him for a substitute when Miss Raymond was out.”

“You remember us, don’t you Mittuh Think? From”—and he mentioned the name of their school. That helped a bit. I knew approximately how long ago I had worked there. A couple of months.  “I remember you, but can you say your names for me—it’s hard for me to remember everybody’s names.” At least I was being partly honest. They each stated their name: One was Devon and the other was Kyle.

And then, in a lowered voice, almost conspiratorial, Kyle said, “we don’t do that thing anymore.”  “What thing?” I asked.

“You know,” Devon jumped in. “That thing we was drawing on the ground with our fingers.”  “Yeah, you know, Mittuh Think. You told us how they killed six million of your people.” 

And now I remembered Devon and kyle. How could I have forgotten them? It had been a day warm enough for kids to play in their shirt sleeves without any coats. We were having a very relaxed recess period, and then I noticed these two boys drawing in the powdery dirt just beyond the paved area outside our classroom. Approaching more closely, I recognized what they were drawing: a line of swastikas.

I took a deep breath and squatted down near them and said, “I have to tell you two something important.

“This symbol you’re drawing makes me very upset.” I could tell they thought they were in trouble.

“ But I’m not mad at you. You probably saw it somewhere and thought it looked cool, and you probably have no idea what it represents. So I’m going to explain what it represents.

“It’s called a swastika. I agree it looks kind of cool. But it’s the symbol that was used by the German Nazis.

“They are the ones who fought against the United States in World War II.  But also, they decided to try to get rid of all the Jewish people in the world. I’m Jewish, and so is my whole family.  T’he Nazis didn’t get all of us,, but  they killed six million.  Six million of my people.

“And now that you understand, I hope you won’t draw it anymore.”

And here they were now, months later, telling me that my one day in their classroom—my solitary five minute conversation with them—did have an impact, “Mittuh Think, we don’t do that anymore,” they were saying with pride. ”You mean the swastika that I told you about. I am so glad to know that you don’t draw it anymore. Thank you for telling me that.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said, “we stopped doing it  the day you explained about it.”

“Yeah, Mittuh Think,” Devon added. “After that day, we never been drawin’ it.”

Dale Borman Fink
Dale Borman Fink retired in 2020 from Massachusetts College of Liberal Arts in North Adams, MA, where he taught courses related to research methods, early childhood education, special education, and children’s literature. Prior to that he was involved in childcare, after-school care, and support for the families of children with disabilities. Among his books are Making a Place for Kids with Disabilities (2000) Control the Climate, Not the Children: Discipline in School Age Care (1995), and a children’s book, Mr. Silver and Mrs. Gold (1980). In 2018, he edited a volume of his father's recollections, called SHOPKEEPER'S SON.

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