SCHOOL LESSONS

 

    I'm waiting on Timberlake Road for the school bus to rumble up the curve from below and take me to Wheelock Elementary. It's cold, as it always seems to be when waiting for the bus in the morning. There are a couple of other kids, but no parents in sight. Parents are known about, generally speaking, but never really known, not unlike stage hands shifting props around, giving cues, then disappearing again.

The snow is hard and patchy. We draw patterns and miniature roads on the frozen ground with our boots, blow clouds of imaginary cigarette smoke into the air; and though I know envy is a sin, I am secretly envious of the cooler kids' moon boots and silver NASA-inspired jackets. Imagine walking around looking and feeling like an astronaut all day! The closest I will get is drinking Tang for breakfast, that powdery nuclear-orange concoction that the commercials promise is what the astronauts drink in space.

Kindergarten itself was not so bad. In those days, it functioned more or less as a daycare, and as an introduction to the routine, discipline, and socialization of school. We listened to record albums on the boxy metal phonograph, enjoyed story and nap time, and a snack of Graham crackers and grape juice. Already I had some favorite books, with Curious George, and The Pokey Little Puppy at the top of the list.

First grade, at Farnsworth Elementary, presented some new challenges and anxieties, especially for a shy kid who much preferred an interior life of his own design. The school was bigger, and the kids were suddenly louder and more aggressive -- and there were simply more of them, crowding the hallways and classrooms, and the high-fenced yard we used for recess.

A stern-faced teacher by the name of Miss Johnson had straight blonde hair reaching nearly to her waist, and long red fingernails sharp as daggers. I knew this firsthand, as she liked to dig them -- hard -- into the back of my neck for continuing to write my letters with my left hand, which was still viewed by many as incorrect. It might even indicate that you were a bit slow, or backwards. To me, of course, it was the only way. Still is. And as self conscious as I was about some things, this was never one of them. I've been surprised to learn that a couple of people I know started out as lefties, but were bullied enough to make the switch as kids. This would have been unthinkable to me. I was as stubborn as the day is long when I needed to be, and I figured the issue was theirs, not mine.

FIRST GENERATION

 

Our grandparents sent long, descriptive letters from across the ocean, while we recited the pledge of allegiance to a flag of forty-eight stars in a one-room schoolhouse, the familiar language of home left at the door, along with the breath-damp wool of scarves and mittens in winter. I am an American now, we were made to recite again and again, and to write it in our notebooks until it became as familiar as our own names, the names which others could not or would not pronounce correctly, and could alter with the stroke of a pen. Our prayers, too, were in English, but only when spoken out loud. Our parents, aunts, and uncles braided the old language with the new, sometimes losing track, beginning again, sometimes inventing a new word where no other could be found. But our silence, in endless variations, was easily understood, neither awkward nor American. It sat as easily as a hammock stretched between two pines, swaying gently from east to west, responsive to the slightest breeze.