I relate to a lot of the incidents you describe, Dale. My mother's life
project was fostering young artists. There are two incidents in my own
failed development as an 'artist' which I know must have been tragedies for
her. The first does relate to the first day of school, though I left it out
of my previous story because it is a "received memory", not my own direct
memory.
When I got home from school, I was given a big sheet of paper to do some
painting - my favourite way of spending time. The first thing I did was to
go to the top left of the paper and start drawing the alphabet across the
top. The beginning of the end of creativity?
When I was 7 my parents entered a painting I did into a national art
competition and I got second prize, against adults. This caused a huge stir
and I got interviewed in the press and generally lauded and praised all
over the place. I never painted again.
Different incident, same outcome.
Andy
At 11:28 AM 25/11/2003 -0600, you wrote:
>I remember kindergarten very, very well. Mostly the traumatizing moments,
>of course, but I'd be happy to recount them if they are helpful.
>
>The tall, straightlaced Miss Volpe who put perfume on our noses as a
>reward for all sorts of things.
>
>My very first attempt at saying hello to another child, when I said "Hi
>Clara" to a girl who seemed like a nice person. Her response was only,
>"It's Claire, not Clara." We did go on to become reasonably good
>acquaintances because we were in the same classes for all of elementary
>school, but that experience is probably the reason I still can't quite
>call her a "friend".
>
>The utter frustration and disgust with the girls who wanted to "script"
>the game of playing house. I felt the point was improvisation, which was
>how my sister and I played at home. I found the school version to be
>hopelessly boring and refused to play after the first couple of
>weeks. [It just occured to me: maybe that's why I never really became
>friends with Claire!]
>
>Standing at the edge of the large green carpet where all the boys were
>playing with stacks of wonderful big pine blocks. There must have been
>hundreds of blocks in that room. It was a huge, high-ceilinged room that
>had been an administrative building lobby in a former life. The
>room-sized green carpet was the centerpiece where we did story time and
>naps and any other whole group activities. Most of the boys would play on
>the carpet with blocks, in little dyads and triads. I had left the
>playhouse crowd and thought those blocks looked wonderful, but I remember
>having no clue how to ask a little boy if he wanted to play. I knew the
>rules with girls, but watched for several days trying to see the boys
>STARTED to play. It seemed that they were always already playing, and I
>finally gave up. I began to paint every single day at the easels, and
>spent the rest of elementary and middle school pegged as "artistic". I
>don't think I am; I'd really rather be building with blocks.
>
>I spent most of the year painting a single picture of a house. I had a
>vision of what a perfect picture of a house should look like. Peaked
>roof, four-square windows, door and doorknob, apple tree in the yard with
>perfectly round apples. It was important that there be no runs in the
>poster paint. Every day I seemed to mess something up. An apple would be
>imperfect, the door a little off-set, the roof slant uneven. I accepted
>that, but every day I would paint the same picture again, trying one more
>time to get it just right.
>
>One day, I did get it right. I was quite pleased, satisfied enough to
>take it home to show my mother. Unfortunately, that was the day I was
>mugged in the tunnel. I walked by myself to kindergarten, tunnelling
>under a very busy intersection and then a quarter-block or so to the
>building. My parents' store was directly across the street, but it was
>actually a massive three-way intersection of three major streets. In seven
>years of walking through that tunnel, nothing every happened except on the
>day I was ready to take my perfect painting home. Two or three big (3rd
>or 4th grade perhaps?) took my paper away from me. I gave chase, but they
>let it fly down the busy street as we all came up the stairs. I was in
>tears when I arrived at the store, of course, and my mother tried to go
>find those boys, but the painting was gone. I never did try to paint it again.
>
>So...that was kindergarten in San Diego.
>
>dale
>
>Gordon Wells wrote:
>>>I would really appreciate accounts, not necessarily your own, of your
>>>earliest encounters of going to school, or an account you have read about.
>>>
>>>It turns out to be devilishly difficult to find a good account that has the
>>>ring of authenticity.
>>>
>>>Any ideas?
>>>mike
>>
>>Laurie Lee gives a wonderful account in/ Cider with Rosie./
>>/
>>/
>>Gordon
>>--
>>Gordon Wells
>>Dept of Education, http://education.ucsc.edu/faculty/gwells
>>UC Santa Cruz.
>
>--
>Dale Cyphert, Ph.D.
>Associate Professor
>Department of Management
>University of Northern Iowa
>1227 W.27th Street
>Cedar Falls, IA 50614-0125
>(319) 273-6150
>dale.cyphert@uni.edu
This archive was generated by hypermail 2b29 : Mon Dec 01 2003 - 01:00:12 PST