I can’t help but wonder if it’s not the earliest lessons … those learned before we have reason, logic and common sense on our side … that stick with us most.For example ...
September 1962 ... the first day of kindergarten. I instantly fall in love my teacher ... Miss Detty. I love the kid-sized kitchen and the big wooden blocks, the neatly stacked puzzles, the cups of fresh (and really pointy) crayons and all the wee tables and chairs. We colored pictures of Jack-O-Lanterns that day. I colored mine purple. I’d never heard of a Jack-O-Lantern. Everyone laughed at me. We watched a filmstrip about sea lions and then had a duck and cover lesson. The smell of the heavy rubber curtain is oddly pleasant. The end of the day is story time. We’re all seated expectantly on the floor in front of our teacher. I have to pee really bad but I just can’t raise my hand and bring myself to ask to go the girl’s room in front of the entire class. So, under the cover provided by my highly starched 1950’s puffy dress, I pee right there where I’m sitting. The story ends. The school day ends. I get up, walk away from my piddle puddle none the worse for wear and, fortunately, unnoticed and meet my mother outside to walk home. She asks me about my day and I tell her everything in detail ... except for the part about my puddle.
Kid lesson … if I don’t get caught then I haven’t done anything wrong.
Adult translation … I can speed down the freeway and it’s okay so long as I don’t get a ticket.
September 1962 … still kindergarten …everyday my mom gives me a nickel to put in my shoe for me to give to Miss Detty because she collects our nickels and places a milk order with the school cafeteria for delivery to us to go with our afternoon "snack". The best thing about milk in the afternoon is the little milk wagon we use to pick up the delivery. Two “good” students are chosen every day for this task. The lucky kids get to leave the classroom and pull the little milk wagon all the way to the cafeteria where they get to fill it up with milk cartons and bring it back for the class. I get to do that a couple of times during the year but not as much as I’d like because being “good” means not talking and that’s really hard for me. The second best thing about milk in the afternoon is the small wooden container with a shiny glass front that's chock full of red striped straws and if you press the little wooden handle on the side a single straw drops out just for you and you get to put it in your milk carton. Mesmerizing. One morning at recess I'm at the tippy top of the jungle gym and my nickel falls out of my shoe and all the way down to the tanbark far, far below. I scramble down to find it but it’s hopeless. The bell rings and I forget all about it as I run to get back in line and go inside. Later that afternoon the little milk wagon arrives and,without thinking, I take a milk and drink it just like every other day. Then ... Uh oh. Someone who paid for their milk didn’t get one. Someone took milk that shouldn’t have. Someone took milk without paying for it. I realize with horror that it’s ME. I’m mortified. I begin to cry. I cry so hard I can’t explain what happened. I cry so much Miss Detty has to call my mom to come and pick me up early.
Kid lesson … perfection guarantees to save you embarrassment and big girls don’t cry.
Adult translation … be ridiculously hard on yourself, strive for perfection so you can do everything right all the time no matter what … and never, never let them see your moment of weakness.
October 1963 … first grade, first month of school, and somehow (probably because I was talking to my neighbor as usual) I don’t hear the lesson being given, and as a result, I confuse the word “red” with the word “blue”. A mimeographed ditto is handed out. On it are four chubby airplanes sporting smiley faces. Two of them have the word “blue” written under them and two of them have the word “red” written under them. Color appropriately. I color all my “blue” airplanes red and all my “red” airplanes blue. The teacher (whose name I don’t remember because I never felt like she was on my side) is sitting at the big “reading table” at the side of the room. She tells everyone to make a line around her table and bring their papers to her. One by one we hand her our papers. Some kids get them all correct and get a big red star written on their papers. Some kids only get some of them right (and I still wonder about those kids really) and get a big red “OK” on their paper. I give her my paper fully expecting a big red star and instead I get a big red “F”. Ummm uh oh. Everyone stares at me. None of us knows what this means until the teacher loudly explains that it’s because I got all of mine wrong. The teacher doesn’t explain anything to me, she simply thrusts my paper at my chest and tells me to “go home and study”. So that’s what I do. At 10:00 in the morning I take my sweater, my beloved plaid lunch box and my big red “F” and make the two block walk home alone ... where the realization of a new problem promptly confronts me ... I’m not allowed to cross the street! I stand there in front of the “rest home” that’s directly across the street from my apartment house willing my mother to come out ... of course she doesn't ... I'm not supposed to be there for another four hours. Because I'm totally afraid to break the rule about crossing the street, the events of the morning finally get to me and I start to cry. The old people in the rest home must have been watching me for awhile. Finally one blue-haired old lady came out to where I was standing on the sidewalk. Somehow I tearfully communicated my problem to her and she took my lunchbox in one hand and my hand in the other and walked me across the street right up to my front door. Let’s just say my Dad (who wondered how a small six year old girl could be allowed to just walk out of school unnoticed) and the principal, Mr. Phillips, came to know each other pretty well that day. That the principal never forgot my name and never forgot to ask if I was doing okay whenever he saw me after that. In fact, later that year when that same teacher sent me home for wearing pants to school on a very cold day (back in the days when girls weren't allowed to wear pants ever), it was Mr. Phillips who drove me home and explained it all to my mother. Fortune smiled on me halfway through the school year and that teacher ended up getting really sick and leaving school for the rest of the year and we got a brand new teacher named Miss Purse … and I loved her dearly. It’s because of her that I not only became a reading superstar but learned about “bundles of ten” and “borrowing and carrying”. Despite my adamant self-imposed rule never to cry at school again ... I did anyway ... on the last day of school when I had to say good bye to Miss Purse.
Kid lesson … most adults “in charge” are good people but some just aren't … and some people hurt your feelings ... and sometimes they'll do it on purpose ... and it's possible to love adults that aren't in your family
Adult translation … always question authority, value relationships but above all protect your heart
And I still have those airplanes with the big red “F” on them in my scrapbook.
.
No comments:
Post a Comment