By 1950, I had a few months of Kindergarten under my belt. I had been four on the first day of school, but turned five about a month and a half later. In those days Kindergartners walked to school by themselves--or with friends if there were any neighbors in the same class. Unfortunately, there weren't, and I walked alone. I've thought that my sister might have taken me to school, but she was at Sacred Heart and I was in the afternoon Kindergarten class at Central School, so our beginning and ending times didn't mesh. I was on my own. I crossed two streets in my journey to school every day--Avenue A and Oak Street. At the time, there were no stop signs at that intersection...it was every four-year-old for herself. Today, folks in my generation "humph" when they read stories of parents facing jail-time for letting four-year-olds walk alone anywhere beyond the garden gate.
I never worried about cars...it was neighborhood dogs that gave me nightmares. Just like children, dogs ran wherever they wanted in those days. Leash laws hadn't been adjudicated, fences weren't common, and loose dogs weren't a problem, either, if they were nice; unfortunately, we had some mean canines along our route...some coming from blocks away. I can't tell you which scared me more--the barkers or the growlers. Sometimes you ran across a barker who combined his distinct woof-woof with a low gutteral growl. That was a creature from hell possessed by the devil himself. I knew I wasn't supposed to run from that type of dog. Number One: I couldn't run very fast, but Number Two: I would be seen as prey and ripped to shreds within a block of home. We were much more free--and, perhaps, responsible than today's kids, but damn, it was stressful.
Miss Weebe was my Kindergarten teacher. I know I liked her, but I don't remember being crazy about her. She was older (40-ish?) and stern. I don't think she smiled a lot and I don't think she nurtured, but I know she didn't yell, and that was all I needed. I cannot imagine what she would think of today's crop of primary teachers who, when graduating from college, are so uber-enthusiastic and can't-be-even-a-teeny-weeny-bit more excited about these tiny, malleable children who will be in their oh-so-clever-and-colorful classroom. They might make Miss Weebe throw up. Although, chances are she is dead now.
Miss Weebe read to us every day. We sat on the floor in a semi-circle, but I don't remember the name or the plot of a single book. I loved that time, though. I also know we got to color with crayons--always a high spot of my day...and, I think we traced or copied capital letters. I think. I don't remember a snack time or nap time. It was the olden days. We went to school to go to school. Life was serious in the late '40s and early '50s.
Miss Weebe was, however, the teacher who feared for my psychic state enough to call in my Mother to discuss why, when I drew a house, it was flying through the air. Miss Weebe asked me that question every drawing day, and every drawing day I told her, "Because it's Dorothy's house." I never changed my answer, and she never changed her question. My Mother explained to Miss Weebe that I had seen "The Wizard of Oz" recently, and it contained a brief scene of Dorothy's house (or Auntie Em's, if you prefer) whirling up into the black clouds. I think that calmed Miss Weebe, but did not make her any more comfortable with this imaginative child in her care.
(I must create an aside here: Does it strike you as odd that a Kindergarten teacher would not be familiar with one of the most famous movies ever in the history of the world? It was released in 1939. She'd had eleven years to see it. Was something wrong with her?)
(One more aside: I must have been seriously traumatized by that scene because, in retrospect, it lasted less than two seconds. They were vivid seconds, to be sure, that apparently scared the pea out of me. This past Christmas season, we took Jackson to see "The Wizard of Oz" at the Phoenix Theatre (live production) and that scene--done to perfection amid crashing thunder and lightning--whirled Dorothy's house right out of sight toward stage left, and got me again.)
My most intense memory from Kindergarten is of THE ANNUAL CENTRAL SCHOOL SPRING PROGRAM. Well, actually, not the program itself, but the lining-up process for its daily practices. There were two lines--right and left. I could never remember which line I belonged in and I was terrified (gut-level terrified) that I would choose the wrong one. I didn't remember who I stood behind, I didn't remember on which side of the room we lined up, I didn't remember anything except the terrible fear that I would get it wrong. I don't think I ever made the wrong choice because, if I had, the memory of the fallout from that would still haunt me today. I just remain traumatized about the daily choosing of right or left. (Could that be why I so hate to choose where we go or what we do? I'm always afraid I'll choose wrong. Kindergarten Breakthrough!)
The fact that we would be wearing beautiful sunflower costumes for this program should have far out-weighed my anxiety, but it didn't. The costume, which my mother was constructing at home was, in my view, exactly what a beautiful ballerina might wear. It was a green tank-type top, attached to a tightly pleated darker green crepe-paper skirt. This costume, which I might still have, was topped with a construction-paper sunflower hat. (Dancing, along with the beautiful ballerina costumes, was my real love and, perhaps, my real talent, but I never got to find out because I never got to take dancing lessons.) 1940's children walked to school alone and did not get to choose their own interest and/or talent.
I still have a large black and white photo of our part of the Spring Program. Without having to search for it, I'm pretty confident I'm in the front row, right where I was supposed to be, not doing what I wasn't supposed to do (pick my nose), and surrounded by classmates whose names I remember better today than I did then. The fact that such a picture exists must mean it was a successful year. I know I was advanced to the first grade which, in my case, would be at Sacred Heart School, which meant a much longer walk four times a day, with more streets to cross and dogs to avoid. That kind of sounds like a metaphor for life.
Miss Weebe was, however, the teacher who feared for my psychic state enough to call in my Mother to discuss why, when I drew a house, it was flying through the air. Miss Weebe asked me that question every drawing day, and every drawing day I told her, "Because it's Dorothy's house." I never changed my answer, and she never changed her question. My Mother explained to Miss Weebe that I had seen "The Wizard of Oz" recently, and it contained a brief scene of Dorothy's house (or Auntie Em's, if you prefer) whirling up into the black clouds. I think that calmed Miss Weebe, but did not make her any more comfortable with this imaginative child in her care.
(I must create an aside here: Does it strike you as odd that a Kindergarten teacher would not be familiar with one of the most famous movies ever in the history of the world? It was released in 1939. She'd had eleven years to see it. Was something wrong with her?)
(One more aside: I must have been seriously traumatized by that scene because, in retrospect, it lasted less than two seconds. They were vivid seconds, to be sure, that apparently scared the pea out of me. This past Christmas season, we took Jackson to see "The Wizard of Oz" at the Phoenix Theatre (live production) and that scene--done to perfection amid crashing thunder and lightning--whirled Dorothy's house right out of sight toward stage left, and got me again.)
My most intense memory from Kindergarten is of THE ANNUAL CENTRAL SCHOOL SPRING PROGRAM. Well, actually, not the program itself, but the lining-up process for its daily practices. There were two lines--right and left. I could never remember which line I belonged in and I was terrified (gut-level terrified) that I would choose the wrong one. I didn't remember who I stood behind, I didn't remember on which side of the room we lined up, I didn't remember anything except the terrible fear that I would get it wrong. I don't think I ever made the wrong choice because, if I had, the memory of the fallout from that would still haunt me today. I just remain traumatized about the daily choosing of right or left. (Could that be why I so hate to choose where we go or what we do? I'm always afraid I'll choose wrong. Kindergarten Breakthrough!)
The fact that we would be wearing beautiful sunflower costumes for this program should have far out-weighed my anxiety, but it didn't. The costume, which my mother was constructing at home was, in my view, exactly what a beautiful ballerina might wear. It was a green tank-type top, attached to a tightly pleated darker green crepe-paper skirt. This costume, which I might still have, was topped with a construction-paper sunflower hat. (Dancing, along with the beautiful ballerina costumes, was my real love and, perhaps, my real talent, but I never got to find out because I never got to take dancing lessons.) 1940's children walked to school alone and did not get to choose their own interest and/or talent.
I still have a large black and white photo of our part of the Spring Program. Without having to search for it, I'm pretty confident I'm in the front row, right where I was supposed to be, not doing what I wasn't supposed to do (pick my nose), and surrounded by classmates whose names I remember better today than I did then. The fact that such a picture exists must mean it was a successful year. I know I was advanced to the first grade which, in my case, would be at Sacred Heart School, which meant a much longer walk four times a day, with more streets to cross and dogs to avoid. That kind of sounds like a metaphor for life.
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