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
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