trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

Little Salt couldn’t believe his eyes or his luck.

He found a whale’s tooth AND a conch shell at Beachwalker State Park!

It was a sperm whale's tooth, of this he was sure.

Of all the kinds of whales in the world, the sperm whale was his favorite. 

The first picture he ever drew of a whale, before he visited the public library and checked out every book he could find about whales, before he memorized the field guide to whales, he drew a picture of how he thought a whale would look, and his picture was a sketch of a sperm whale with a gigantic head and a seasoned fluke.

He picked up the gigantic tooth. 

It was a foot long, shaped like a cone, and made of ivory. 

"This came from the lower jaw of a sperm whale," he thought, "Because they don't have any teeth in their upper jaws, only slots for the lower teeth to fit into.”

If he could somehow slice the tooth in half, it would show the age of the whale like the rings of a trunk show the age of a tree. 

He gently laid the whale tooth beside him on the sand.

He picked up a shell with both of his hands.

By nature it was a mysterious, wonderful shell. 

"What a shell," he thought.

It’s shape and color amazed him.

The shape was a common shape in nature.

It was formed by graphing the numbers 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13..., the Fibonacci numbers, a shape that reveals the golden ratio, phi, a special number approximately equal to 1.618 that appears many times in geometry, art and architecture.

The color was a common color in nature, too. 

It was three shades of yellow. 

It's spine was the bright yellow of the sun that very morning. 

It's siphonal  canal was the quiet yellow of the peaches he and his abuelo and his mamí picked off the trees in the orchards. 

It's aperture was the deep yellow of sunflowers in a field.

He raised the shell to his tiny, listening ear. 

Someone told him once that if you hold a conch shell to your ear then you can hear the ocean. 

"I wonder if it's true," he thought. 

"I can take it home to our gutted-out school bus and listen and see if I can bring the ocean with me wherever I go. 

If I can, then, in a small way, I can bring whales with me."

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

My name is Salito.

It means “Little Salt” in Spanish.

My abuelo gave me this name.

“Mi nieto,” he said when I was little, “I’ll call you Little Salt because you are our life and our link to the sea.”

He always says things like that.

Most of the time, I don’t know what he means.

But the sparkle in his eyes and the smile in his voice as he speaks makes my heart happy.

Like salt, I’m not much to look at.

My nose is like a pickle, big and knotty, the kind of pickle you buy out of a gallon jar at the migrant store.

My ears are like pecans, small and brown, unable to hold my glasses to my face for long.

My hair goes across my forehead in a crooked line.

“A little salt goes a long way to bring flavor to the world,” says my abuelo. “And you go a long way to bring flavor to people’s lives.

‘Esse quam videri,’ goes the old Latin saying.

‘The essence is more important than the appearance.’

‘What’s inside is more important than what’s outside.’

Remember that, mi nieto.

Remember.”

Yep, that’s me.

Salito.

Little Salt.

Sometimes, in the middle of a long day in the fields and orchards, I close my eyes and imagine I am a tree.

If I were a tree, I’d like to be a peach tree.

I’d share my fruit with everyone.

I told this to my abuelo.

One morning, there was a sheet of notebook paper on my pillow.

Smudges from my abuelo’s hand was on it.

He had written a poem for me.

If I were a tree,

     I would like to be

          a peach tree

Leaves a peaceful green,

     birds could perch and sing,

          children laugh and swing

               upon my branches

Fruit a joyful red,

     the sun could rest it’s head,

          the hungry could be fed

               upon my peaches

Bark an earthy brown,

     roots deep in the ground,

          the weary could sit down

               beside my trunk

My friend the gentle breeze,

     rustling through my leaves,

          refreshing all in need

               of tender shade

I’d stand strong and tall,

     give myself to all,

          ‘til all my fruit was gone,

               a giving tree

Though I would be bare,

     I would still be there,

          reminding all I care,

               a peachless tree

Spring would come and then

     I would bloom again,

          and be for you my friend,

               your peachful tree

Yep, that’s me, too.

Salito.

Little Salt.

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

I open my eyes.

There’s no light on our gutted-out school bus.

Only darkness.

Complete darkness.

I can’t see!

I put my hand in front of my face, but I can’t see it.

I wiggle my fingers, but I can’t see them.

Have I gone blind?

I’m afraid.

I’m scared of the dark.

My abuelo taught me to do something very important when I’m afraid.

"Little salt,” he said, "if you wake up and it's dark, don't be scared. 

Open your eyes wide and think, 'I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust' three times. 

When you finish thinking these words, everything will be okay. 

I promise."

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust.

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust.

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust.

My abuelo was right, as he usually is.

Here is my hand.

Here are my wiggling fingers.

Here I am.

I can see.

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

She breathed in, and the air made a soft, whistling sound through her nose. 

She breathed out, and it made a gentle, flapping sound through her lips. 

“Life is a symphony,” he chuckled to himself, “Of whistles and kazoos.”

“Ma’am,” he whispered. 

She didn’t move.

She kept right on sleeping and snoring. 

“Ma’am,” he said a little louder. 

Still only whistles and kazoos. 

“Ma’am,” he said a little louder still. 

This time he reached out and patted her weathered hand. 

She opened her tired, brown eyes and smiled a small smile at him. 

“Thanks for a lettin’ me use yo shoulda as my pilla,” she said with a gravelly voice. 

“First time I woked up beside a man in a long time. Hope my snorin’ didn’t bother you none,” she giggled. 

“No ma’am,” he said with a giggle of his own, “It was music to my ears.”

His knees and back snapped and popped as he stood up slowly and smoothed out the wrinkles in his pants and tee shirt. 

“My goodness,” said the old woman, “You make music, too.” 

He placed his hand gently on her bony shoulder. 

“We could start a band called The Human Element,” he laughed. “People would come from all over to hear us whistle, flap, snap and pop. What do you think?”

“Yep, they’d pay us a bundle of money to hear that.”

He pulled on his jacket and waved his hand to her. 

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said. “Thanks for the song.”

She waved back. 

“Thank you,” she said. “And do me a favor. Lean on down here and let me tell you somethin’.”

He leaned down.

She surprised him.

She kissed him on his forehead with a light, tender kiss. 

“That’s the kiss of a guardian angel,” she whispered. “Listen to life, and do not be afraid.”

He stepped off the bus and onto the street.

from trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

A gigantic tooth and a mysterious shell washed up with the waves onto the shore.

“Wow,” he thought.

This was THE word he always thought when he was astonished.

“WOW,” he once wrote on a little note to his abuelo, “WHALES OF the WORLD!”

He smiled as the memory washed over him with the water and the tooth and the shell.

The tooth was a sperm whale's tooth, of this he was sure.

The sperm whale was one of his favorite whales.

The first picture he had ever drawn of a whale, before he visited the public library and checked out every book he could find about whales, was a sketch of a sperm whale.

This was before he learned that the brightness of a light bulb is measured by a lumen, which is simply the light one cup of sperm whale oil gives off.

This was before he memorized the field guide to the whales of the world.

That picture had come from somewhere deep inside of his heart.

He picked up the tooth with both hands.

It was a foot long, shaped like a cone, and made of ivory.

"This came from the lower jaw of a sperm whale," he thought, "because they don't have any teeth in their upper jaws, only slots that the teeth from the lower jaws fit into.

If I sliced the tooth in half, it would show the age of the whale as the rings of a trunk show the age of the tree.”

He gently laid the tooth beside him on the sand.

He picked up the shell with both of his hands, too.

"What a wonderful shell,” he thought. “Look at it’s shape and color.”

It was a conch shell.

It’s shape was a common shape in nature, formed by graphing the numbers 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13 and so on, the Fibonacci numbers, a special shape that appears many times in geometry, architecture, art, music and literature.

Some people call the shape ‘God’s blueprint,’ because it seems to be the plan from which God creates the world.

It's color was a common color in nature, too.

It was three shades of yellow.

It's spine was the brilliant yellow of the sun that rose every morning on the horizon of the sea and sky.

It's siphonal canal was the quiet yellow of the peaches he and his abuelo and his mamí picked in the South Carolina summers.

It's aperture was the deep yellow of sunflowers in a field.

He raised it to his tiny ear.

Someone told him once that if you hold a conch shell to your ear, you can hear the ocean inside of it.

"I wonder if it's true," he thought.

"If it is, I can take it on the migratory road and bring the great whales with me.”

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

I’ve written deeply and widely about the immigrant students in my elementary school.

I’ve spoken broadly about how much they and their families mean to me.

I stand hand in hand and heart to heart with them.

I call out for human rights and immigration reform for them in this time when they are scapegoated by political demagogues who use them as ways and means to advance their political careers.

I love them.

There are many reasons why.

Here’s one.

Just before lunch, I walked by a friend’s classroom.

She was working with a student who was with me last year for the first few months of school.

He’d spent the last few days with me because his family hadn’t sent in the permission slips he needed to go on two field trips with his 5th grade classmates.

“I’m so happy you’re back in my classroom,” I said to him as I patted his shoulder. “You’re the best.”

He’s walked a long, hard road in his 10 years.

You can see it in his deep, brown eyes and hear it in his soft, quiet voice - a sadness and timidity that shouldn’t be in the face and heart of one so young.

My teacher friend stepped out of her room when she saw me.

“I’m about to cry,” she whispered to me.

“Can you believe it, when I finished working with Dionicio, he asked if he could clean my table for me. He’s so thoughtful and kind.”

Yes, I can believe it.

He comes to us from the farms and fields of Guatemala.

He’s a treasure.

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

The last car came through the pick up line for the after school program.

Three students remained, so we took them back into the school building to wait for their parents.

I stood beside a 1st grader.

Since I teach 4th graders, and am around 9 and 10 year olds all day long, I forget how small 6 and  7 year olds can be.

This little guy was indeed small. 

I almost overlooked him.

I’ve been trying NOT to overlook and ‘underhear’ (if I may make up a word) life around me.

I’ve been trying to look closely and listen carefully.

“Since I almost overlooked and underheard this little guy,” I thought, “I need to ask him about his day.”

I knelt down beside him so I could see and hear him better.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he answered, looking at me out of the corner of his wide, brown eyes.

“How was your day today?”

“Good.”

“What was the best part of your day?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders.

“I don’t know.”

“Was it recess? What’d you play at recess.”

“I made up a game with my friends.”

“Wow, you made up your own game? You must be very smart!”

The fact is, he is struggling academically. That’s why he’s in the after school program.

I wanted him to know the smart side of himself.

Our talk went on until his ride appeared outside of the door.

He gave me a high five.

“Bye,” he said as he walked away.

As he said it, though, he turned and looked back at me and smiled a smile that said, “Thanks for seeing me...thanks for hearing me.”

“I’m here,” I thought. “Estoy aquí.”

It’s mostly what a teacher does...it’s mostly what a teacher is.

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

self-portrait of a writer

Kind, watery eyes from seeing

Worn, battered shoes from walking

Torn, tattered shirt from working

Gentle, calloused hands from holding

Humble, open heart from knowing

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

I’m afraid of the dark.

It’s scary not being able to see and not being able to know what’s around you.

I don’t know about you, but when I can’t see in the dark my hearing gets magnified. 

Hearing becomes my super power. 

I hear the creak of a board on a neighbors porch, a drip of water in our outdoor bathroom, a scritch-scratching branch in the breeze over the roof of our bus. 

Everything is right there.

I just can’t see it.

When I was a little boy, my abuelo taught me what to do when I’m afraid in the dark.

"Little salt,” he said, "if you wake and it's dark, don't be afraid. 

Keep your eyes wide open and whisper, 'I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust,’ three times. 

When you’re finished whispering those words, everything’ll be okay. 

I promise."

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust.

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust.

I am salt. I am light. I am made from the dust.

My abuelo was right, as he usually is.

I can see.

Here I am.

trevor’s encyclopedia of lost and beautiful things

There is a whale in the northern Pacific Ocean named 52 Blue.

Scientists named him this because he sings at a frequency 52 MHz. 

Other whales like him sing at frequencies between 15 and 25 MHz. 

They cannot hear his song. 

He has been called the loneliest whale in the world. 

Normally, whales are not lonely. They are communal creatures. They live in family groups. 

They migrate from warm waters to cool waters to give birth and find food. 

They follow the same migratory route year after year. 

52 Blue is different.

He lives alone. 

He doesn’t follow a migratory route. 

He wanders the ocean.

“Not all who wander are lost,” says the old saying.

Neither are those who wonder.

The wonderers usually find.

52 Blue is a wandering, wondering whale. 

whale

song

lonely

where are you?

wandering, singing

singing unheard wandering songs

can you hear me? are you there? are you? i am alone

listening, longing for songs gently sung, i hear you song on water, i’m here, i’m here

we sing at diff’rent frequencies, migrate along diff’rent routes, wandering, wondering

unheard, unknown, wandering the sea, song on water

singing unheard wondering songs

wondering, singing

who are you?

gentle

song

whale

Learn more about 52 Blue in Leslie Jamison’s story in The Atavist Magazine - https://magazine.atavist.com/52-blue