I’m not sure where I came across this photo. This is a photo of the elementary school where I spent my formative years. It looks pretty much as I remember it, except I don’t see the coils of barbed wire.
The kindergarten was housed within the gable end section on the right, which included the built-out area. On the inside of that built out area was a semi- circular wooden bench seat that was used for “group time”.
My earliest memory of this place is of going to the school with Mom to register me for kindergarten. I don’t remember a whole lot about that day- only that they had a dollhouse in the classroom which, to my prekindergarten sized body, seemed enormous. On one side of this dollhouse were two hinged doors which opened to expose the fine miniature furnishings.
I never remember playing with this dollhouse- whether this was by my choice or not, I can’t say with certainty, but I suspect I wasn’t allowed. Another thing about that day is that I remember going along willingly. I think this might have been the first and last time that happened.
I have a few vague memories of the kindergarten class as well.
All I remember about the first day was the feeling of queasiness- not only being away from home, but of being surrounded by a bunch of strange kids that I didn’t know, and of trying to figure out how I fit in.
I remember another day when one of those kids had brought in a little toy car for show and tell. This little car was maybe three or or four inches long and it had a little spoked wheel on the underside and a pull-string on the back. At the end of each spoke was a little suction cup. When you pulled the string, the wheel would wind back and then you could stick it to some surface, let go of the string and watch it go. That was pretty cool.
What was especially cool was that the proud owner of this prized possession decided to demonstrate its amazing capabilities by sticking it to the wall, which he did, and when he let go of the sting, the car not only shot up the wall but actually made it several feet onto the twelve foot high ceiling- whereupon the kid immediately burst out crying.
This result of this was that the classroom instantly broke into two different camps. In one camp was the teacher, Miss Kent, who did her best to console the kid and assure him that the janitor would be able to get the car off the ceiling. The other camp consisted of all of the kids- each of whom thought that this was the funniest thing we had ever seen in our lives. I can’t speak for the others, but what made this especially funny was the fact that it wasn’t happening to me. I didn’t know it at the time, but this would pretty much be the last pleasant memory of what would soon become a years long soul crushing experience.
I soon learned a lesson from Show and Tell- which was, if you were going to bring something to Show and Tell, then it should be something pretty innocuous- certainly nothing with any emotional attachment. I once brought in a flashlight that had been given to me as a gift by an aunt. By the time I was done showing it, I learned that not only was my flashlight not considered cool, but neither was my aunt. From then on, anything that mattered to me stayed at home.
When I went to kindergarten, classes were a half day long. Even though they were only a half day, the half day was divided with a nap time. For nap time, large exercise mats were laid out on the floor. If you were one of the lucky ones, you got to lay down on one of these cushioned mats. If you weren’t, you had to lay down on the semi- circular window seat. I napped on the window seat.
One time, I made the cardinal sin of actually falling asleep during nap time. There’s nothing wrong with falling asleep- as long as it’s in the comfort of your own home. But all kids know that you don’t fall asleep at nap time. Nobody does.
But on this particular day, I was lying at the far left end of my ever-so-comfortable oak window seat and the next thing I knew, I was hearing hushed talking. As I lay there blinking and struggling to wake up, it slowly dawned on me that entire class was now occupying the remainder of the window seat- and I was the focus of their attention. Just what I didn’t want to be.
I had realized that being the focus of attention in school meant one of two things. It meant that you either excelled at something, or it meant that you were different. And if you were different, the best you could hope for was that, if you kept your mouth shut, maybe over time you could blend in and join the ranks of the faceless masses.
But I had fallen asleep. Nobody falls asleep at nap time... except me. And now it was all out there. I had fallen asleep. And I liked my flashlight. And I loved my Aunt.
And we hadn’t even gotten to the hard stuff yet.
I don’t remember much about the intense academic challenges in kindergarten- other than math. Math- such as it was, was taught by using something called “Cuisenaire Rods”. These were little wooden rods, starting at one centimeter cubed. The next rod was one centimeter by one centimeter by two centimeters long. Each successive rod would grow incrementally in length for a total of, I think, ten rods. But the really important thing is that each one of those rods was supposedly a different color..
The purpose of the rods may have been to teach math in some fashion-which I have yet to grasp, but what they taught me was that I was even more different than I had already been foolish enough to reveal.
I couldn't figure out why the color of one rod was called “purple” and another one was called “blue”- when they were both the same color. I had the same problem with the brown and the red, and the same problem with the orange and the green. Everyone else seemed to be having a pretty easy time of it, but I couldn’t figure out what the heck was going on- and we hadn’t even gotten to the math part of it yet.
In my utter confusion and in my desire to avoid the spotlight at all costs, I learned that if the teacher asked the class to hold up the red rod, I would have to wait a split second and see if the other kids were holding up the short red rod or the long red rod. And then I would pray that the teacher would not go around individually to see how good we were at this grueling test of our intelligence and conformity.
As if this mind bender wasn’t enough, it was made even more confusing by the crayons. At the beginning of the school year, each of us were given a brand new box of large Crayola crayons. The box contained eight or so crayons and while the so called blue and the so called purple still looked identical, it wasn’t the brown and the red that looked the same. Instead, it was the brown and the green.
I never had to worry about things like this at home. I never even read the labels on the crayons. If I liked the color of a crayon, I just used it. Who cared what it was called?
My life in school was only just beginning.
When I look at this photo, it's with a mixture of memories and emotions- all involving dread and anxiety.
I mentioned elsewhere that this school was torn down many years ago. And I think I mentioned that in it’s place is both a playground and an empty park. Somehow, both seem fitting to me. One represents joy and innocence and playfulness. The other, emptiness.
---
I picture myself walking slowly through a now empty park. The sun is beginning to set behind me. I hear distant echoes of children playing, but there is no one around.
I’m looking for something.
Did I lose something?
I can’t remember.
I feel something hard beneath my foot.
I look down at the worn patch.
A small rock?
It feels... different.
I bend over and brush away the dirt, trying to break it free. I pick up a small piece of wood. It feels smooth and I examine it- slowly turning it over and over in my hand.
Was this part of a toy?
I can see that it was painted- but in the dim light, it’s difficult to make out the color.
What was this for?
I kneel down and I use the rod as a tool- and I scratch halfheartedly at the surface of the dirt.
I expose parts of an old, broken doll house- but I can’t be sure.
I stare at the shapes, trying to focus, but they’re difficult to make out in the fading light.
I stand and stare back down at the crushed toy. The jagged pieces are harder to see at this distance.
I realize that it’s quiet now.
When did the children stop playing?
I stand still...straining to hear...anything. Nothing.
I stand still...trying to remember...what?
Why am I here?
How did I get here?
I’m not sure.
I’m not sure.
I’m not sure of who I am.
I need to leave.
It’s getting too dark... and I’ve left my flashlight at home.
No comments:
Post a Comment