I had my first day of kindergarten today. I’ve upgraded from my “First Day of College” that I claimed last semester. Who knows? Maybe next semester I’ll transfer into preschool. For the uninitiated my kindergarten schedule sports such exotic classes as “ART” (rhymes with fart), “English” (where I learn a new language) and “Poli-Sci” (where we explore the multiple universes and greater space-time continuum of American Politics). First, we had to get up early and contend with “waking up” and the epochal jitters described in great detail in a previous post. I accompanied Mom and Aunt Marj to a doctor’s appointment, where I was kindly reminded that carrots are in the same family as parsley- thanks. Then off to childcare. Political-Science-101 is first. 3rd floor… You know what, I was kind of in a daze so forget how I got there. Early, though. It’s one of those rooms that’s just a box held together with yellowed tape, without even the courtesy of fenestration or even holes poked into the corrugated paper sides. The table-chairs were crammed in there. As the students came in I counted the gender ratio, bouncing from 1/3 to 1/4 and back with a female majority. Speaking of fractions, a third of the females on campus are pursuing nursing majors. Scientific fact-of-the-day. The teacher came in, Precious Hall, black and short and sassy, with the prescribed fascination of the desk, the ceremonial silence within the ranks. We were packed in.
Like, if a cold is going around this is where I’ll catch it. Like, better wait for everyone to vacate before standing unless you want to infringe upon personal space. Like, trying to make the word “like” sound academically intelligent after David Foster Wallace.
Roll call observations; The first person called to introduce themselves (in the corner farthest away from the front) announcing their name and then their dislike of awkward situations such as (apparently) standing up to announce your name; the awkward silence directly ensuing. The actor, whose voice and demeanor is unnaturally, appreciably loud; the girl who smells like perfume and whose dark hair spills onto my desk announces that she is in TMCC High School, whereupon her adjacency to me is promptly stereotypified. The girl with bleached hair says that she does soccer, which partly excuses her adolescence and subsequent appearance. The young Marine Corp guy. Funny how military service strips your uniqueness away to the point where military service is your only uniqueness. The quiet guy in the Pikachu beanie up front who is a psychology major.
Next is Composition 102. A majority of my peers here are return customers. In this case I’m not sure if this is a commendable thing, as they mostly exonerate her fairness in grading. Bridgett Blaque, when she comes in, seems promising but a little spacy. The room is another cardboard box. It gets stuffy and the door is opened to the busy corridor outside, where we are treated to a “shut up Steven” and other snatches of intelligent conversation before the door is hastily refastened.
Which leaves us with Art. The studio is accessed by a door in the back of the ceramics studio. The children file in; some look like they’re there pre-adolescence, most like they’re there post-mortem (translate: for a required fine arts credit, not due to any alacrity within the field). There is the mandatory phone-silence; enforced by radar, the sign should say. When the certain Almond, Paris comes in she seems familiar. I’ve settled my description as a perfect amalgamation of Aunt Shizue and Professor Trelawney of Harry Potter. But an artist in speech instead of writer. I was most excited about this class and I was right to be; this is going to be a good one. Cool, eccentric teacher.
Greetings from the land of plentiful I-phones, where teenagers lurk behind every potted plant and speech is plain and undemanding, and where you are never as you seem. (Thank you Grandma! XOXO Amelia)