From the outset and overall, I found school to be often confusing and inconsistently gratifying – gratification defined as feeling happier and more competent at the last bell than I had at the first. For instance? Four years at boarding school. Honest highlights? 1) biology class cat dissection, 2) working in the kitchen for an hourly wage, 3) writing a story for the literary magazine about a man and his ill-fated pet chicken, and 4) firming up an excellent work ethic while working (my choice) in the gym basement washing and distributing towels, socks, jockstraps, etc., under the supervision of Leo, a fabulous story teller and former (era of the two-handed set shot) semi-pro basketball player. Missed the part about teachers, curriculum, and sports? You needn’t check back; it wasn’t an oversight.
I began kindergarten at age four – four months short of five years. This seems pretty young, but counting back from fifth grade confirms it. I suspect I was swept up by a formula and deposited, not for the last time, well back in the valley on the far side of Bell Curve Hill. I traveled to kindergarten on a size-large yellow bus which every day deposited me at an ancient, four-story, red sandstone building grim and creepy enough to make Freddie Krueger drool. (When I returned here for third grade, I learned that it was known as “The Penitentiary.”) Dawdling down the sidewalk to the front door, I was very careful, after the first day, not to look up at the narrow, dark windows under the eaves of the roof. If, at four years, I had had sufficient words to capture the uncertainty those windows engendered in me, those words would have described the place in the attic where all the scary things gathered to see what was on offer for the day.
In truth I don’t remember much at all about that kindergarten year. I am pretty sure I haven’t fabricated the memory of chasing another student out of the workshop and into the classroom waving a handsaw. I would like to recall it as the two of us playing “the workshop is on fire and we better get out of here (without stopping to drop our tools.) But in truth it has more the flavor of “I’m going to hack off your head.” That I could behave in this way stuns me as I have always assumed my Super Ego was 95% consolidated prenatally. Obviously, there was some slippage here. Fortunately I ran right into Mrs. A, our large, kind and patient teacher, who, despite being patient and kind, invited me to take what we now call a “time out.” Mrs. A simply (and never, ever, twice) suggested that one “have a seat” in a chair designated to accommodate the odd, and very rare, miscreant. Beyond this sad affair I remember that as a whole class project we developed a “town” using large blocks and areas designated as being for particular town functions and jobs. I was appointed postmaster and confined, perhaps to preclude any further rampaging, within a block palisade with a service window. I stamped and delivered imaginary mail; the only excitement occurred when business picked up around Valentine’s Day in the era when every kid gave every other kid a small card (the same card) on the 14th of February.
My clearest K memory takes place not at school at all but at the bus stop in the morning. All the K-5 students gathered on a corner to await the size-large bus. It was the custom upon arrival to insure your place in line by jumping up and slapping the bus stop sign. This was your pass to get in line in the order in which you had arrived. It was really an excellent regulatory system. But, what happened if, surprise, at age four you couldn’t reach – couldn’t come anywhere close to even grazing – the sign let alone give it a satisfying slap? Well, you got a license to board last even if you had arrived before dawn. And, as mine was the last pick up on the line, this invariably meant walking all the way down the bus aisle and sitting between two “big kids” on the usual rear bench that ran across the back of the bus. More often than not the big kids were surly fifth graders in an adult supervision vacuum and drunk on “top of the heap” power (small heap though it was.) And to say they were surly is, by no means, intended to portray them as passive sulkers. No, they were pretty much loaded for K most days and poked you or had unpleasant things to say. Carefully crafted bon mots like, “Can’t slap the sign, Scrub? Monkeys can!” This was thought brilliant at age ten and devastating at age four. On occasion a more socialized peer would tell the trolls to leave off but this was rare and often ignored or worse gave rise to more clever quips usually casting the helping peer as “your mommy.” Fortunately after a couple of month the big boys lost interest, but by now I had an anticipatory set for life on the bus that lingered on despite cessation of active hostilities. It has been my observation over time that many kids in this bench seat type situation are advised by adults to “ignore” the bullying and “if bullies don’t get a response they will get tired and stop.” And while many times this is true, this strategy does nothing to mitigate the corrosive effect of the waiting period harassment. And in fact many times it doesn’t stop. Anyway I learned pretty early on to expect no quarter and to keep my head down. If you can’t reach to slap the sign, well that’s your problem, and whatever you do, don’t whine about it. Ever.
Consignment to the bus backwater did have one upside in that you were guaranteed last place getting off. When what was coming was at best unappealing, I always preferred to be last in line. And while I never actually observed a kid die in an attempt to improve their position in the line getting off the bus, conditions were always ripe for it. Anyway, the later into school the better even if the interval was short and inevitably we all filed through the door.