Kindergarten, Playhouses, and Boredom
I was four when we left Keys Drive behind and moved to a black and white split level home on a busy thoroughfare called North Abbe Road. The elementary school I would go to, Windsor, was just across the street nestled snuggly behind two huge brick churches. But to cross Abbe road safely one needed to cross at the light, and what would otherwise be a 400 meter dash across the street to get to school actually became twice as long.
I remember my mom walking me to my first day of Kindergarten. With my little sister in tow I bounced happily along the paved trail that ran alongside the huge grass field and playground. We stopped at the back of the school building to take the obligatory first day of school picture. I was only going to be gone for half a day. I was registered for Mrs. Brown’s afternoon class. I wore a knee length dress and my hair was done neatly in a dozen braided pony tails accented with barrettes on each end (I wouldn’t come home with any of them). It wasn’t going to be my first time in a class room like setting having spent a good amount of time in day care at Abundant Life. I loved to learn and my capacity for curiosity was limitless.
I stepped into my new classroom and looked around. It was so colorful and bright. There were small chairs, and small tables, and each seat had a name tag. I located my name. My mom shooed me on and that day I began my lifelong love affair with learning. That is until Mrs. Brown called for a parent teacher meeting to discuss my unacceptably bad behavior.
My mother, the head manager of a bank, did not appreciate being called out of work for any reason not life or death. But here she is black pumps echoing on freshly waxed floors in the now empty hallways of Windsor Elementary.
“Mrs. Brown” my mom says, a greeting that serves to acknowledge ones presence but doesn’t give any inclination that the meeting will be a pleasant one.
“Please, have a seat Mrs. Madison” Mrs. Brown gestures toward an adult-sized chair.
They sit. “Why am I here today?” My mother asks. Mrs. Brown explains that she thinks I should be tested for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and perhaps, according to her, be prescribed Ritalin as a solution if her hunch turns out to be correct.
My mother takes in Mrs. Brown’s face slowly and solemnly with the same intent focus of an artist ready to sketch her subject on canvas. “And why,” she begins to ask, “or what, I should say has given you reason to believe that my daughter needs to be medicated?” Mrs. Brown, finally recognizing the precarious position she was in begins to excitedly explain.
“Everyday during the lesson, Tianna gets up out of her seat, and starts to play, either with the toys at the back of the room or in the playhouse.”
My mom looks at me. But Mrs. Brown wasn’t lying so I remained seated and quiet.
“It’s disruptive to the class”, Mrs. Brown continues “not to mention she’s not paying attention and so she isn’t learning. She may need to repeat kindergarten if this continues.”
My mom speaks again, “speaking of learning, may I see what it is they are learning?”
Mrs. Brown happily pushes her seat away as she stands and reaches for a book and a pile of worksheets that she then offers to my mother. My mother flips page after page in silence before looking up and meeting Mrs. Brown’s eyes. “Have you asked Tianna why she keeps getting up?” A strange look ripples across Mrs. Brown’s face almost as if it had never occurred to her that she could ask a four year old about her own behavior. My mother didn’t wait for Mrs. Brown to answer before speaking again, “it’s highly likely, Mrs. Brown, that my daughter gets up everyday because she is bored. You have here alphabet tracing activities. Did you not notice that Tianna can already read?”
I’ve once again taken up residence in the playhouse. This specific conversation between adults is much too boring for me, and I also recognized one of the looks my mother gave Mrs. Brown and it won’t be too much longer before someone gets in trouble if this keeps up, I’d rather it not be me.
“She can read.” Mrs. Brown repeats as a statement more than a question.
“Yes,” my mother replies “and count to 100 and to ten in Spanish as well. My daughter is bored in your class and perhaps rather than recommend medication for her, a child whom you’ve clearly made no effort to understand, I suggest you find a way to challenge her.” She tells Mrs. Brown that their meeting is over and that she’d make the principle aware of the conversation and go from there. She stands, extends her hand to be courteous, wishes Mrs. Brown a good evening and with her hand on my back she hurries me out the door.
I remained in kindergarten in Mrs. Brown’s afternoon class but whenever the lesson was related to reading or writing I waited for a hall escort to fetch me and take me to a first grade class. My parents felt that being four years old in Kindergarten was manageable. Being four years old in the first grade, not so much. Being two years behind my six year old peers would not be easy on me socially. So, instead of getting up to entertain myself with toys in the playhouse I got up and skipped down the hall to Mrs. Williams first grade class.