So even though I knew what I was up against, my naive and trusting nature hoped that everyone in charge at school would embrace me with genuine love and affection, and prove Jim wrong.
Turns out, Jim was right. Authority was everywhere. Suddenly I'm not allowed to talk. I have to get in line for recess. Gotta get in line to come back in from recess. There's a line for the drinking fountain. There's a line for the lavatory. (That's a bathroom in Catholic school speak). We have to lay on a rug and take a nap. We have crayons that we're not allowed to break. We have paste that we are not allowed to eat. We have to sit at a round table with three other kids we can't talk to. I sit with Jim DeDecker, Joe Loftus, and Teresa DeRuyck. Joe, Jim and I all claimed Teresa as a girlfriend. I actually kissed her on the cheek though, so I won. We had to drink tepid whole milk from Baker's Dairy. Little glass bottles with paper tops. That shit stunk up the whole room. I hated milk, especially that stuff. It was only slightly cooler than a cow's body temperature. Some of the little bottles actually had cow hairs stuck to the lids, and cow poop on the steel racks the bottles came in. I refused to drink that stuff. It was just way too gross. I wasn't allowed to substitute, not even with water, so every day at snack time I choked my graham cracker down unaided. My teacher was an old bag named Mrs. Shamoscow or something. She hated kids. My outstanding memory of this witch haunts me still. There is an easel in the corner of the room. It has a tablet of big-ass art paper on it. This stuff is for finger painting. How cool is that? Fingerpainting! I can only imagine the fun that would be. Only one kid at a time was allowed to finger paint. So after weeks of waiting my turn, I asserted myself and asked that woman when I might have a turn. She said after Easter break. Oh happy f***ing day! I get to finger paint! Finally, Easter break comes and goes. Every day I anticipate Mrs. Old-cow will give me my turn. Maybe she forgot our pact. So I got up the nerve to confront her with my concerns, and I finally asked her. That old bat said we're all done with finger painting for the year, kid. I thought man, what a bitch. Not the situation. Her. That cranky old hag caused me to hate school and never trust authority. On her death-bed I hope her life flashed before her eyes and I hope she saw the disappointed face of a naive little kid all over again.
Maybe it's time to let it go. The memory is 53 years old. Nah. I'll keep it. Maybe it will help remind me to be a better person than Mrs. Shamoscow.
I wasn't lied to by my teachers, stolen from, nor did I have a sadistic brother. But like you I never got to finger paint in kindergarten and I feel your pain, but you kissed a girl, something most of us only dream of at that age, and you're worried about finger painting? I like this story and will tell it as my own when I am 60-ish, lol.
ReplyDeleteThis is a great recollection of Kindergarten...all so true! Although I rather loved my Kindergarten teacher, I know exactly what you mean about the (non) fingerpainting experience.
ReplyDeleteJust the other day my co-workers and I did a service project in the HeadStart classroom as part of our staff christmas party at Ridgewood elementary, which was my elementary school. The classroom happened to be my old Kindergarten room (it hadn't changed much since I was there in 1993). During free time, a little girl went over to the fingerpainting easel, had us help her put the apron on, and then quietly told me there was no paint. I asked Mrs. Bennett, the teacher, where I could find the paint for Mikayla to use. She said it was put away because it was the last day before Christmas break. Mikayla looked at Mrs Bennett the way you looked at your teacher, then looked at me with sad little puppy eyes and opted for a computer game instead. What's so wrong with wanting to be creative anyway???