A First Grade Experience

A First Grade Experience

Day One:

One day of school was enough. I resolved not to return. When mom and
dad asked me how it went, I said "OK" and left it at that. Raise no
suspicions. I had to think. This would not be easy. I was only five
years old and already up against the system.

A plan arose. It was brilliant. Let's see how it turned out.

Day Two:

Arose as usual. Dressed. Breakfast. Every hair in place, plastered down
with water. Name tag stuck to my shirt pocket with a safety pin.

Dad left for work. I saw the car leave the driveway and head off around
the corner.

So far, so good.

I dawdled indoors. Never leave the house. Remember that.

Mom urged me to go outside and wait for the bus at the end of our
driveway with Carol, the 10 year old neighbor girl.

I declined.

"I can see the bus coming from here," I said.

"OK, but don't miss it!" mom said.

Silence. Tense anticipation. Lookout status. Bus. Mom. Bus. Mom.
Bus.

The bus appeared, approaching and yellow.

"Quick! Go outside! The bus is coming!" she yelled.

I flopped down on the bed. Dead weight. Silent. Fooled her!

"Oh no! You'll miss the bus! Get up! Get up!"

Silent. Dead weight.

The bus stopped. Mom twirled and swirled, yelling. The bus left.

Fooled her! Safe. No more school.

Mom picked up the phone and called dad at work.

Uh oh.

I hadn't thought this far. Flawed plan. Make note for future.

I waited. Gentle sound of one toe tapping on a grey wool carpet. Pursed
lips. I waited. Tense.

Dad pulled in the driveway. Car door slammed. Sound of footsteps
approaching. I stood, looking up. He was not amused.

"OK. In the car," he said, gesturing towards the door.

We drove in silence.

At school he led me to the principal's office. Mr. Wilson. I'd never
seen Mr. Wilson, but his reputation preceded him, even after just one
day. He was said to be very strict. Rumor was that he had a big paddle
mounted on the wall like a deer rifle. The paddle had holes in it to
reduce air resistance. It sounded like a mean weapon. Some claimed it
was electrified, battery-powered, maybe even atomic. No one knew for
sure. Maybe no one lived to tell the tale. Was that it?

I sat on a wooden chair. Dad disappeared into the principle's office. I
waited, watching the old ladies typing and filing. Looked old to me.
The chair was shiny and slick. Lemon oil polish and centuries of little
bottoms had rubbed it smooth.

Dad came out and sat next to me. Then Mr. Wilson appeared.

'Oh no!' I thought. 'It's Khrushchev! How did he get here!'

Panic. To my five-year old mind, Mr. Wilson was a dead ringer for
Nikita himself.

"Come here please," he said, motioning me toward him. Mr Wilson was
only a few inches taller than I, yet he loomed large behind that low
counter,

I slipped to the floor from the wooden chair and walked the two paces
to the counter, steadying myself on the Formica top. I looked into the
eyes of the man who had promised to bury us all.

"Kindergarten was optional," he explained. "You did not have to go to
kindergarten, but now you are in the First Grade and the law says you
must go to school from the First Grade through the Twelfth
Grade."

Silence.

I looked at him, thinking and calculating. I was on the spot. Twelve
years. That was a long time to a five-year old. Almost unimaginable. No
way out though, not yet anyway.

"OK," I said, reluctantly.

"Your dad will take you to your class room now," he said.

"OK," I said, vaguely relieved.

Dad and one of the office ladies escorted me to my classroom, opened
the door and gently shoehorned me inside.

I never tried that stunt again. It wasn't a bad idea, just too short
term.

What I remember most, though, is Mr. Wilson. He spoke the truth. The
information was useful and relevant to me. He did not try to frighten
me, nor did he pretend we were pals. He just told me the truth and let
me draw my own conclusion.

That was 1955.

They don't make them like Mr. Wilson any more.