School: Part I – Early Childhood
The overwhelming majority of my life thus far has been consumed by the primary and secondary education systems of the United States. Being so close to the end of high school, I often find it sobering to pause and look back on the whole journey. Nostalgic at times, longwinded at others, there isn't a singular direction I'm aiming for with these posts. When you get to the end, you might wonder what the point of the post was. When writing to this blog, I usually start with a main idea then let the post write itself. The idea for these posts is pure reflection. At the forefront, they're a collection of memories—kind of like a memoir. They're about me, and what makes me who I am. They're mostly for me too. Perhaps years down the line, I'll look back at these posts and chuckle nostalgically at them. I'll call them School.
I began going to preschool at a daycare called A Place to Grow. Well, actually, my first daycare was KinderCare, which I attended for a total of perhaps two days in my life. After my the first day there, I apparently caught a massive illness and was out for a few weeks; after I came back (for my second day), my condition apparently relapsed in full force. And with that, my parents withdrew me from the daycare. Thus began my stay at A Place to Grow, where luckily I didn't suffer as much. My memories of the place are spotty, but I remember generally how it was structured. If you walked in through the door, you'd enter a small atrium, with a reception desk directly to the left. In front of you to the left laid a door, and in front of you to the right laid a small L-shaped hallway, with a classroom door on the right just where the hallway met the atrium—the "bigger kid" classroom. If you walked down the hallway, the hallway made a sharp, 90-degree turn left as you rounded the corner of the L. At the end of the hallway laid a large door that led to a large room—the central classroom.
I don't distinctly remember playing on a playground there, but I think a playground existed. I do remember there being a grand total of one computer in the entire building that could be used by the kids. If you walked in through the door and looked directly right, it'd be there in the corner. It had maybe one or two fun games on it, which we would take turns playing on a time limit (I faintly recall getting scolded for hogging the computer one day). They also had one TV that they would roll in on a cart to show educational shows. Our class's favorite show was Dora the Explorer, although I think I personally preferred Blue's Clues. In the corner next to the door opposite to the computer laid the bathroom. I remember there being a standard toilet as well as a smaller plastic potty chair; they would start us on the potty chair and then throughout the year slowly transition us to the toilet.
One thing about me was my deep emotional attachment to my parents. I remember crying profusely on several days, because I was no longer in the theretofore omnipresent company of my mommy and daddy. When you're four, however, a day is a much larger fraction of your life than when you're older. I eerily remember days when I would look to the door and I would see my mom, smiling and waving at me; I would jump up in ecstasy, only to look again and realize to my horror she wasn't really there. This memory is one of the most unsettling of my early childhood. Perhaps I missed my parents so much that my mind would literally produce their image at the door, or perhaps I simply mistook the face of some other woman for that of my mom. Every time they left and I cried, the teachers would try to console me, promising me that they would be back by the End of the Day. To be honest, I didn't really understand what the "end of the day" meant; I interpreted it to mean the end of all days—that is, I will only see my parents again on the day the world ended. A traumatizing thought. I gradually got used to the treatment, however, and my cries grew shorter in length until a day came when my parents could leave me and I would know to expect to see them again eventually. But I would continue to hold my misconception of the End of the Day through kindergarten.
After A Place to Grow, my parents enrolled me in a private elementary school preparatory academy—Dublin Prep Academy. I remember far more of this place than I do A Place to Grow. Interestingly, all the teachers went by their first names. We called my kindergarten teacher, for example, "Mrs. Elizabeth." You entered Dublin Prep Academy and it would have opened into an atrium, with two reception desks in the corners of the room opposite to you. Directly in front of you, in the space between the reception desks, was a computer lab. To the left and to the right, doors led to hallways. The hallway on the left led to the kindergarten classrooms. The one on the right led to the preschool classrooms. If you proceeded to the right and walked down the hallway, you would have met some first and second grade classrooms. At the end of the hallway, it makes a 90-degree turn left and eventually meets up with the other hallway. Following that hallway further leads to some sort of related art classroom, and the hallway ultimately ends at the gym. I don't recall the gym being that extravagant. Against the wall opposite to the door, a couple of toy, plastic houses stood. A large flag hung on the right wall—every morning, we would recite the pledge of allegiance to this flag; however, I would always show up late and miss it. (I suspect, though, that there were days when the teachers straight up forgot about the pledge.) I think my parents wanted me to sleep more. If you walked down the length of the gym to the right, it actually is connected directly with the cafeteria and music room. To the left was a door to the outdoor playground, where we would go for recess.
My memories of Dublin Prep Academy are much more refined than those of A Place to Grow. With that being said, I do forget my preschool teacher's name—I think it was Miss Angie. Yes, that must be it. Interestingly, the teachers at Dublin Prep Academy preferred to be addressed by their first name, along with their title. Consequently, when I eventually got to elementary school, I would unwittingly address teachers by their first name and get admonished for doing so. In Miss Angie's class, I learned what sound each letter makes and how to read certain basic words using that phonemic understanding. I also learned how to sit "criss-cross-applesauce." Most of my memories of Dublin Prep Academy are of kindergarten, however. I attended two years of kindergarten (one of which was pre-K) at the academy, both of which were taught by the same teacher: the indubitably awesome Mrs. Elizabeth.
Even before I attended her class, I had already labelled Mrs. Elizabeth my favorite teacher. She was funny, kind, and generous to everyone lucky enough to meet her. In her class, we would get these tickets every time we did good work or showed kindness. Every Friday, we would submit our tickets to Mrs. Elizabeth and have the opportunity to select a prize (usually candy) from a treasure chest that Mrs. Elizabeth kept next to her desk. (Nine years later, when I would enter high school, my German-language teacher used a similar reward system.) Mrs. Elizabeth's room's walls were painted bright green, and to the left, there were four or five long, rectangular tables lined up parallel to each other. In the back, there was a walk-in closet (off-limits to the kindergartners). To the left, there were toys and filing cabinets. Mostly toys.
Around this time, I remember starting to have favorite TV shows, and I while playing, my friends and I would pretend we were the characters on these shows. The first such show was The Legend of Tarzan. Something about all of Tarzan's friends looking up to him because he has saved them made me feel really good. In a way, I wanted to be Tarzan. I wanted to save my friends and have my friends look up to me too. Unsurprisingly, subsequent favorite TV shows as a child reflected this superhero yearning. After Tarzan, I my favorite thing ever was Power Rangers S.P.D., the thirteenth season in the Power Rangers franchise that aired in 2005. I would come home and know exactly when to turn on the TV 'cause S.P.D. would be on—I think it was 6:00 pm.
One thing I remember distinctly was the frequency at which we would watch Pixar's 1998 film A Bug's Life. It felt like every week. I don't think I ever figured out why we watched A Bug's Life so often, but quite honestly, I never complained. It was, at the time, most definitely my favorite movie. I empathized with the character Princess Dot, a young queen ant who feels disillusioned because she is too young to fly. She eventually learns that "being little's not such a bad thing" and is pivotal in saving the entire ant colony from continued grasshopper oppression. In many ways, I—and I suspect others too—saw myself as Dot, feeling more than a little restricted by my littleness.
I began going to preschool at a daycare called A Place to Grow. Well, actually, my first daycare was KinderCare, which I attended for a total of perhaps two days in my life. After my the first day there, I apparently caught a massive illness and was out for a few weeks; after I came back (for my second day), my condition apparently relapsed in full force. And with that, my parents withdrew me from the daycare. Thus began my stay at A Place to Grow, where luckily I didn't suffer as much. My memories of the place are spotty, but I remember generally how it was structured. If you walked in through the door, you'd enter a small atrium, with a reception desk directly to the left. In front of you to the left laid a door, and in front of you to the right laid a small L-shaped hallway, with a classroom door on the right just where the hallway met the atrium—the "bigger kid" classroom. If you walked down the hallway, the hallway made a sharp, 90-degree turn left as you rounded the corner of the L. At the end of the hallway laid a large door that led to a large room—the central classroom.
I don't distinctly remember playing on a playground there, but I think a playground existed. I do remember there being a grand total of one computer in the entire building that could be used by the kids. If you walked in through the door and looked directly right, it'd be there in the corner. It had maybe one or two fun games on it, which we would take turns playing on a time limit (I faintly recall getting scolded for hogging the computer one day). They also had one TV that they would roll in on a cart to show educational shows. Our class's favorite show was Dora the Explorer, although I think I personally preferred Blue's Clues. In the corner next to the door opposite to the computer laid the bathroom. I remember there being a standard toilet as well as a smaller plastic potty chair; they would start us on the potty chair and then throughout the year slowly transition us to the toilet.
One thing about me was my deep emotional attachment to my parents. I remember crying profusely on several days, because I was no longer in the theretofore omnipresent company of my mommy and daddy. When you're four, however, a day is a much larger fraction of your life than when you're older. I eerily remember days when I would look to the door and I would see my mom, smiling and waving at me; I would jump up in ecstasy, only to look again and realize to my horror she wasn't really there. This memory is one of the most unsettling of my early childhood. Perhaps I missed my parents so much that my mind would literally produce their image at the door, or perhaps I simply mistook the face of some other woman for that of my mom. Every time they left and I cried, the teachers would try to console me, promising me that they would be back by the End of the Day. To be honest, I didn't really understand what the "end of the day" meant; I interpreted it to mean the end of all days—that is, I will only see my parents again on the day the world ended. A traumatizing thought. I gradually got used to the treatment, however, and my cries grew shorter in length until a day came when my parents could leave me and I would know to expect to see them again eventually. But I would continue to hold my misconception of the End of the Day through kindergarten.
After A Place to Grow, my parents enrolled me in a private elementary school preparatory academy—Dublin Prep Academy. I remember far more of this place than I do A Place to Grow. Interestingly, all the teachers went by their first names. We called my kindergarten teacher, for example, "Mrs. Elizabeth." You entered Dublin Prep Academy and it would have opened into an atrium, with two reception desks in the corners of the room opposite to you. Directly in front of you, in the space between the reception desks, was a computer lab. To the left and to the right, doors led to hallways. The hallway on the left led to the kindergarten classrooms. The one on the right led to the preschool classrooms. If you proceeded to the right and walked down the hallway, you would have met some first and second grade classrooms. At the end of the hallway, it makes a 90-degree turn left and eventually meets up with the other hallway. Following that hallway further leads to some sort of related art classroom, and the hallway ultimately ends at the gym. I don't recall the gym being that extravagant. Against the wall opposite to the door, a couple of toy, plastic houses stood. A large flag hung on the right wall—every morning, we would recite the pledge of allegiance to this flag; however, I would always show up late and miss it. (I suspect, though, that there were days when the teachers straight up forgot about the pledge.) I think my parents wanted me to sleep more. If you walked down the length of the gym to the right, it actually is connected directly with the cafeteria and music room. To the left was a door to the outdoor playground, where we would go for recess.
My memories of Dublin Prep Academy are much more refined than those of A Place to Grow. With that being said, I do forget my preschool teacher's name—I think it was Miss Angie. Yes, that must be it. Interestingly, the teachers at Dublin Prep Academy preferred to be addressed by their first name, along with their title. Consequently, when I eventually got to elementary school, I would unwittingly address teachers by their first name and get admonished for doing so. In Miss Angie's class, I learned what sound each letter makes and how to read certain basic words using that phonemic understanding. I also learned how to sit "criss-cross-applesauce." Most of my memories of Dublin Prep Academy are of kindergarten, however. I attended two years of kindergarten (one of which was pre-K) at the academy, both of which were taught by the same teacher: the indubitably awesome Mrs. Elizabeth.
Even before I attended her class, I had already labelled Mrs. Elizabeth my favorite teacher. She was funny, kind, and generous to everyone lucky enough to meet her. In her class, we would get these tickets every time we did good work or showed kindness. Every Friday, we would submit our tickets to Mrs. Elizabeth and have the opportunity to select a prize (usually candy) from a treasure chest that Mrs. Elizabeth kept next to her desk. (Nine years later, when I would enter high school, my German-language teacher used a similar reward system.) Mrs. Elizabeth's room's walls were painted bright green, and to the left, there were four or five long, rectangular tables lined up parallel to each other. In the back, there was a walk-in closet (off-limits to the kindergartners). To the left, there were toys and filing cabinets. Mostly toys.
Around this time, I remember starting to have favorite TV shows, and I while playing, my friends and I would pretend we were the characters on these shows. The first such show was The Legend of Tarzan. Something about all of Tarzan's friends looking up to him because he has saved them made me feel really good. In a way, I wanted to be Tarzan. I wanted to save my friends and have my friends look up to me too. Unsurprisingly, subsequent favorite TV shows as a child reflected this superhero yearning. After Tarzan, I my favorite thing ever was Power Rangers S.P.D., the thirteenth season in the Power Rangers franchise that aired in 2005. I would come home and know exactly when to turn on the TV 'cause S.P.D. would be on—I think it was 6:00 pm.
One thing I remember distinctly was the frequency at which we would watch Pixar's 1998 film A Bug's Life. It felt like every week. I don't think I ever figured out why we watched A Bug's Life so often, but quite honestly, I never complained. It was, at the time, most definitely my favorite movie. I empathized with the character Princess Dot, a young queen ant who feels disillusioned because she is too young to fly. She eventually learns that "being little's not such a bad thing" and is pivotal in saving the entire ant colony from continued grasshopper oppression. In many ways, I—and I suspect others too—saw myself as Dot, feeling more than a little restricted by my littleness.
"Hey, can I play on the swings too?"This was the typical exchange. I remember older children spontaneously calling me, for no reason at all, "little kid" throughout kindergarten. They dismissed my ideas, refused to play with me, made fun of me—all because I was to them a "little kid." Years later, when I was doing a summer camp maybe before third or fourth grade, my respect for camp counselors (whom I've traditionally loved) diminished greatly when one of them refused to hear me out, derisively labelling me as that "little kid." The entire phrase is just laced with condescension. I suspect that early-childhood educators are trained to avoid using it. If they aren't, they need to start.
"No, little kid, go away."