One morning (again) back in kindergarten, I stood at the end of the line pondering God-knows-what. Eventually I grew curious about what we were lined up for, but the other kids wouldn’t talk. Suddenly I was the only one left, facing the looming Mrs. Hammond.
“Raise your left hand,” she commanded.
Huh? Now hands have names? Apparently from her expression this was something she’d mentioned before. Oh well, one guess is as good as the other. Tentatively, I lifted the hand that seemed to want to go first.
Wrong. Mrs. Hammond grabbed my other arm and forced it out of sight.
What the--?
Behind her back, she squashed my spread hand into something cold and clammy and held me helplessly in place. (Another jellyfish?)
Turned out to be one of those clay handprint plates you had to spray-paint gold and bring home in those days. To me, however, the moment was the kindergarten equivalent of an alien abduction. I brought the thing home but didn’t, for once, want to talk about it.
Then there was the construction-paper jack-o’-lantern project. Again I had to guess what we were doing at the last second, so mine turned out like Cyclops. Refusing my pleas for another chance -- a mere second piece of construction paper! -- Mrs. Hammond tacked it up on the wall, where it stared out freakishly amid all the appropriately eyed paper pumpkins, ready for Parent-Teacher Night.
I suppose Mrs. Hammond can’t be entirely blamed for all this torture. There was, after all, the time she hushed us and got very serious about a certain slip of paper. We were each to receive one and it was VERY IMPORTANT, we MUST NOT FAIL, to not only take this piece of paper home but to return it, with a parent’s signature, the very next day. Not in two days, not never.
The other kids sat silent, blinking and seemingly stupefied.
Again, was she not seeing what I was seeing? These timid little snivelers barely knew where they were or how to keep from wetting themselves. Whereas I (you know it) could certainly complete the task, clearly it was beyond the rest of them.
Well, I pitied them, even if she didn’t.
Feeling genuine sympathy in the chilling wake of Mrs. Hammond’s hopeless directive, I addressed the room in a deeply patronizing tone.
“Well, TRY ... ”
I can still see Mrs. Hammond’s jaw dropping as she zeroed in on me for a little, ah, discussion.
“Raise your left hand,” she commanded.
Huh? Now hands have names? Apparently from her expression this was something she’d mentioned before. Oh well, one guess is as good as the other. Tentatively, I lifted the hand that seemed to want to go first.
Wrong. Mrs. Hammond grabbed my other arm and forced it out of sight.
What the--?
Behind her back, she squashed my spread hand into something cold and clammy and held me helplessly in place. (Another jellyfish?)
Turned out to be one of those clay handprint plates you had to spray-paint gold and bring home in those days. To me, however, the moment was the kindergarten equivalent of an alien abduction. I brought the thing home but didn’t, for once, want to talk about it.
Then there was the construction-paper jack-o’-lantern project. Again I had to guess what we were doing at the last second, so mine turned out like Cyclops. Refusing my pleas for another chance -- a mere second piece of construction paper! -- Mrs. Hammond tacked it up on the wall, where it stared out freakishly amid all the appropriately eyed paper pumpkins, ready for Parent-Teacher Night.
I suppose Mrs. Hammond can’t be entirely blamed for all this torture. There was, after all, the time she hushed us and got very serious about a certain slip of paper. We were each to receive one and it was VERY IMPORTANT, we MUST NOT FAIL, to not only take this piece of paper home but to return it, with a parent’s signature, the very next day. Not in two days, not never.
The other kids sat silent, blinking and seemingly stupefied.
Again, was she not seeing what I was seeing? These timid little snivelers barely knew where they were or how to keep from wetting themselves. Whereas I (you know it) could certainly complete the task, clearly it was beyond the rest of them.
Well, I pitied them, even if she didn’t.
Feeling genuine sympathy in the chilling wake of Mrs. Hammond’s hopeless directive, I addressed the room in a deeply patronizing tone.
“Well, TRY ... ”
I can still see Mrs. Hammond’s jaw dropping as she zeroed in on me for a little, ah, discussion.
RSS Feed
