If
my five-year-old self was in kindergarten today, I would be labelled with
Attention Deficit Hyper Activity Disorder and placed on Ritalin. My exuberance, independence and unrelenting
tendency to think outside the box would be squashed in order that I conform. Pressure to conform would not come from peers
but from teachers too overwhelmed and stifled by multiple rules and
restrictions to appreciate a real child.
I was lucky because when I was young precocious kids were considered
interesting - unless they disrupted the
rest of the class in which case some time standing in the corner would be in
order. I got to know many corners in
many classrooms in my early school years.
And while I never got the dreaded strap, I did write many lines and
spent more than one afternoon sitting on my hands after school. My biggest crime was talking. I talked and talked and asked and asked and
there was just never enough time in the day for all I had to say and all I
wanted to learn. But I am getting ahead
of myself.
My
mind goes back to the time when I had just started kindergarten. Kindergarten, that most wonderful of places
with lots of other children, and books and crayons and endless other curious
things. I remember learning to colour
one day; move the crayon side to side, not up and down or in a scribble
motion. It looks nicer that way. We had to have a nap every day, which I
hated! I didn’t nap at home! I protested but not too much when I noticed
all the other kids getting their blankets out and spreading them on the
floor. I could never figure out how the
other kids always knew what to do but I was usually completely at sea. I realize now that I probably wasn’t
listening when the teacher gave instructions, but back then it was all a big
mystery. I obediently flopped down on my
yellow flannel blanket with the “pollywogs” all over it. Paisley was not a word I had ever heard but I
know I would have loved it if I had. I
loved words, I ate them up and spit them out with wondrous abandon. Lying on my little blanket I would listen to
the record the teacher played “ding dong
bell Pussy’s in the well....” and all
those favourites. But I would get bored
and start bothering the child beside me.
And then I would get in trouble, or get moved. Naptime was agonizing and much too
long.
One
day the teacher mentioned something about a report card. It was a letter that would go home to my
parents to tell them how I was doing at school.
I was very excited about this. Wow! A whole letter just about me. I shared my parent’s attention with a
sickeningly sweet little brother that everyone adored and to think of a letter
just about me was almost too great a thing to imagine. At the end of class we were all given our
report cards and told not to lose them.
This was in the days when mothers weren’t “smothers” and children actually walked to
school and back. Alone. Yes, at five years old. No big deal.
I knew the way. And I knew the
alternate way if the big black dog was out in his yard. So, off I went home with my prized report
card. I presented it to my mother who
smiled and told me to put it on the table for my dad to see when he got
home. That was it? I couldn’t believe it! She didn’t say she was proud of me or give
me a hug or a cookie or anything. More
importantly, she didn’t read it to me!!
What did it say? I wanted to
know! Was I a good girl? Smart?
Helpful? Did I share? All those things that kindergarteners are
supposed to learn. Was my colouring up
to speed? But I knew better than to
bother my mother and ask her to read it to me.
She was busy with the other child.
The cute one.
When
my father got home that night and we were sitting at dinner, my mother regaled
him with tales of all the things my brother had said during the day. I was beside myself waiting for him to read
my report card! I wanted to yell at him
“Daddy read it, it’s about me!” but I knew better than that. You didn’t tell my father what to do. You waited till he got around to it. Finally, he read it. And he looked at me and said: “ Can you read
yet?” Could I read yet? I only wished! I had wanted to read since I came out of the
womb. My whole life’s purpose was to
get hold of a book and learn to read it.
It was my main reason for going to school after all. I had heard that’s where you learn to
read. And it hadn’t happened yet! And my Dad was thinking it should! Something was wrong. But I soon forgot about that when he left the
table and left my report card sitting there.
I decided since no one was going to read it to me, I would try to read
it myself. After all, I was in
kindergarten, surely I could figure it out for myself.
I looked at the piece of paper with the
printing all over it. It didn’t make
any sense to me. But wait, there was my
name. I could read that. And it was there a lot. Other than that, it might as well have been
Chinese for all the good it did me. And
then I saw the dotted line at the bottom of the report card. I remembered the teacher talking about that
dotted line and how important it was to get our mommy or daddy to put their
name on it before we brought it back. I
went to my father who was sitting reading the paper and told him. He ignored me. I found my mother and asked her to put her
name on it. She was busy with the beast
and she told me she would do it later. I
stuck my tongue out at him and left the room and went back to the kitchen
table. What if they forgot to sign the
report card? I would be in trouble! I was very anxious about this and yet afraid
to make a fuss. You didn’t do that at my
house. Not without risking
punishment. Was punishment worth it to
get this card signed? In my five-year-old mind nothing was worth punishment, in particular my father’s brand of
punishment.
All
at once I came up with the solution. I
would sign the report card myself! My
mother had been teaching me how to write my name and I could write Mommy and
Daddy. I got the pen my father used for
his crosswords and I went to work carefully writing “Daddy” on the dotted line
of my report card. I felt so smart and
helpful!
When my father saw what I had done he was
furious and told me I was stupid. But
my mother had a different reaction.
While she was annoyed and tried to erase the ink with the ink eraser, I
could see the laughter in her eyes and the smile at the corner of her
mouth. I had done something
“cute”. Just like my brother. My father signed the report card under the
“daddy” and the next day I took it to school.
I proudly handed the report card to my teacher. I can still hear the laughter coming from
out in the hall as she showed my genius handiwork to other teachers. It was the kind of laughter that didn’t come
my way very often, the kind of laughter that my brother inspired in almost
everyone he met and the kind of laughter I have strived to earn
throughout my life.
No comments:
Post a Comment