Peace is a Group Effort

Kindergarten Can Be a Tough Place

Grove St. School

There are plenty of folks who claim that their first memories reach all the way back to the womb or at the very least, toddlerhood.  I am not one of them. Squeezing my eyes shut and searching my inner filing cabinet, I thumb through the folders and land squarely in Mrs. Kreager’s kindergarten class at Grove Street School. There are three memories to be exact, and I find it interesting that they were seared into the hippocampus of my brain by the driving emotions of anger, fear, and power.

It all started with my white jewelry box. Adorned with pink roses and a golden latch, it set a tulle dressed ballerina a-twirl every time I opened it.  She danced in a circle on her satin toe shoes before an oval mirror and guarded the rings and necklaces that lay perfectly arranged below her. It was my most precious possession and I had brought it in for Show-and-Tell. Dutifully, I placed it on the Special Shelf reserved for Show-and-Tell treasures that was off-limits to the class.

Mid-morning, as I carefully inserted a half-circle shaped block inside a larger one to complete a block tower of architectural excellence, I heard the familiar tinkling of a music box. I turned my head and saw two boys, Tommy and Robert, trying on two of my rings. As I charged toward them, Tommy slammed the top shut and they both ducked into the corner playhouse.  Incensed, I gently opened the box to make sure all was okay, and to my horror, my lovely ballerina laid sideways, limp and broken at her slender ankles. I carried it, sobbing, to Mrs. Kreager who decided, in the end, that there simply was not enough evidence to convict Tommy and Robert of wrongdoing. The weight of injustice and the accompanying anger covered me like my electric blanket when I turned the control dial-up to number ten.

Tommy and Robert, however, were not happy that I would have the gall to tell on them. So during lunch hour they cornered me by the jungle gym and proceeded to scream in my face and push me to the ground. I curled into a ball and protected my head as I imagined my own legs bent sideways forever like the ballerina’s. To make matters worse, they followed me as I walked home pushing me into pricker bushes and threatening death if I told anyone.  In 1964 we didn’t know about bullying, I didn’t have words for what was happening. Petrified, I endured these attacks for a week until Mrs. Powers, our neighbor, drove by one afternoon and witnessed it.  A few phone calls later, Tommy and Robert were doomed.

Suspiciously, they went missing from class for a few days so I was able to regain my composure.  When they returned, Mrs. Kreager reseated them on the opposite side of the patchwork gathering carpet that everyone knew was just a bunch of samples from the rug store across the street. I saw them whispering throughout the morning and I felt that familiar panic rise though me as we lined up for recess. As we streamed out the door onto the black top, I ran for a swing thinking I could kick one in the face if I pumped hard enough.

Then, the most curious thing happened.  To this day I wonder about the dynamic of it all as it surprised me as much as anyone else. How easy it was to indoctrinate a mild-mannered five-year-old girl into a life of crime.  Tommy and Robert grabbed my arm and then stood on either side of me creating an uncomfortable bully sandwich.  Instead of pummeling me, Tommy said, “We’re sorry.  To make it up to you, we will beat up anyone you want us to.”

“Yeah,” added Robert, his fists pumping, “just point ‘em out.”  Now, I was not the aggressive type and had no other enemies that I knew of. The last thing I wanted to do was beat anyone up.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, shaking my head.

“I said point ‘em out,” Robert repeated through gritted teeth.

“Come on,” said Tommy,”recess is only ten minutes.” They started to squeeze against my ribs and visions of the broken ballerina began to swirl around me.  The memory of pricker bushes and the taste of raw fear bubbled into the back of my throat. This was survival of the fittest.

“If you don’t pick someone we’ll do it for ya,” said Robert. “We might even pick you again.”

And then I heard these words come out of my mouth, “That kid in the red jacket.” And off they ran.  Seconds later the kid in the red jacket, whom I had never seen before, had a mouth full of dirt.

This scenario played itself out every day until it started to feel good.  It was like I was the queen of the playground. All I needed to do was point, and the girl who had taken the last snack that morning was shoved into a tree trunk, the boy who had hogged all of the Lincoln Logs was pressed against the chain link fence until diamond shapes imprinted on his cheek. I was suddenly drunk with power. I felt like a player, a somebody, a contender.  I had no idea I had become a bully myself until Tommy and Robert were apprehended once again and sang like canaries in the principal’s office.

Then the three of us disappeared for a few days to learn a few lessons about kindness and how to control base human behavior. Upon our return, the patchwork gathering carpet had been divided into three sections and each of us sat at a different one.

Looking back on this I realize the power of human emotion to override what we innately know to be harmful to others.  Powerful, instinctual emotions can rise up, like flood waters, and carry us to a place we never wanted to end up.  Anger, fear, and power rule our decisions and our world in many ways.  It takes patient and loving guidance from parents, teachers and friends to help us understand ourselves and develop empathy for others. Our schools have come a long way in educating  us and our children in the arena of bullying, but I dare to say that as a nation, we have a ways to go.

The Ballerina

I boarded my connecting flight late on purpose. It had already been a long travel day, and I dreaded another two hours on a crowded plane. As I made my way toward the one vacant seat in back of the aircraft, I could see a frazzled, older woman standing in the aisle. She clutched a maroon tweed carry-on bag that was not going to fit under the seat no matter how hard she wrestled with it.
“Oh dear.  I thought this would work. What was I thinking?” Mumble, mumble. “No room in the overhead.”  More mumbling. “Gosh darn it.”
Her words, squeaked though the air as passengers all around pretended not to notice. Flustered, she looked past me toward the flight attendant who was motioning for her to bring the bag to the front of the plane so it could be checked. There was something about her exaggerated movements that didn’t feel right. Something was left of center. I didn’t have to look up at the seat numbers to know that I would be her lucky seat mate.
I stood to the side as she bustled past me, nervous and sweating, in her sea foam sweat suit worn thin by too many washings. I scanned the plane for another empty seat as I was in anot willing to converse with weirdos mood.  Unfortunately, the plane was full, so I pretended to check and recheck my things in the overhead until she returned and plopped into the window seat, exhaling loudly.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Nothing to worry about.” I wasn’t sure why she was apologizing.
“I don’t fly often,” her doe-brown eyes were magnified by the lenses of her glasses. Light brown curls framed her face.
“Hmmm,” I murmured as I pulled the flight card from the seat pocket and pretended to search for overwing exits. I was too tired to encourage her.  I wanted to take off, fall asleep, and wake up in Austin.
She buckled her seat belt and sat upright, her beige leather purse perched on her knees. “Do you?”
“Do I what?” I asked.
“Do you fly often?”
“I guess so.”
“For your job?”
“At times.”
“I am going to see some relatives.”
“That’s good.”  I could see that my short answers were not deterring her.
She continued to pepper me with questions while she took a small brush from her handbag and began to brush her hair. I hate it when people groom themselves on airplanes. I hoped she did not pull out some nail clippers next.
“Don’t worry, I’m not the type that will talk your ear off on the flight,” she said as she brushed the back of her hair with sudden intensity.
“I didn’t think so,” I said as I gave her my best fake, yet friendly smile. I put my head back and closed my eyes. I had a big day tomorrow.  Media training.
A few minutes later the plane accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air. We both glanced out the window as the ground shrank below us. Her hands wrapped around the handles of her purse. A deep breath. She began to hum.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a teacher, eighth grade. And a writer. You?”
“Oh, I don’t work.  Not anymore. I stopped before… How old are you?”
How old am I? Like that’s a normal thing to ask a stranger.
“Older than I want to admit,” I fake laughed. I pulled a novel from my bag and began to read. I would nip this in the bud right here.
She opened her purse and pulled out a Zip-Lock Bag of candy. She unwrapped a few Hershey Kisses and smacked her lips as she enjoyed them.  It was sort of making me queasy, all of these mouth noises and finger wiping. From the corner of my eye I saw her carefully, almost reverently, remove a photo from her purse. She slid it across my tray table.
“She was thirty-seven.”
Was.
A lovely ballerina stared up at me from the photo.  I picked it up and my heart wobbled.
“She was a serious dancer.”
Was.
“She’s beautiful,” I said as I studied her poised on the tips of her satin toe shoes, auburn hair pulled taunt into a bun.
“You would have loved her,” the woman added as she touched my arm. “She taught extreme sports in the off season.  Anything to pay the bills. Spirit.  That’s what she was known for. People loved her spirit. Filled the room.”
I slid the photo back in her direction and looked into her wounded, magnified eyes, expecting tears.  There were none, just the far away cast that said she was remembering. My insides ached as I realized what was happening.
Of course I didn’t recognize right away what made her different.  How could I when my own daughter was safe and happy. Grief can rearrange a person. The weight of sorrow can pull anyone left of center.
Shame crept in. I had to stop judging people so quickly. “I have a feeling we would have been good friends,” I said.
“It’s been three years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Breast cancer.”
“Awful.”
“Now, I told you.  I’m not one of those types to talk your ear off.” She proceeded to tell me all of the disturbing details.
We settled into our respective silences.  I could concentrate on my novel about as well as she could concentrate on the prayer cards she kept pulling from her purse. How does a mother let go of her baby girl?  I prayed with all of my might that I would never have to find out. After awhile she pulled out a carefully folded newspaper clipping and slid it across the tray table. “Since you’re a writer. You’ll appreciate this.”
I unfolded the paper and proceeded to read a lovely tribute to her daughter, indeed an established dancer in Los Angeles.  The same photo she had handed me earlier adorned the piece.
“This is wonderful.”
“We couldn’t afford a proper obituary by the end.  All of our money was gone. The church supported us through so much of it…but her friend, John, he knew the writer.”
She took the clipping and carefully replaced it.  A few more Hershey Kisses disappeared.
“You know.  The worst day…”
I braced myself.  I was not the strongest when it came to emotional pain.
“…was the day she lost her arabesque.”
Her arabesque? What about her breasts? What about the day she lost her life?
“That was the day we looked at each other and knew.”
“I am lost for words,” I said, my eyes watering.
“A dancer needs her arabesque.”
We nodded at each other. A nod between mothers paints far more than a thousand words. We settled again into a comfortable silence.  She watched the fiery sunset through the clouds, and I watched her watching it.
“I hope I can be the kind of mother you’ve been,” I said to her as we landed. “Your sharing this with me gave her one more performance.”
“What do you mean?” her eyes lit up like I was the director of the Joffrey Ballet Company.
“Your sweet ballerina danced right into my heart. And when a writer says this, it means that one day, she will dance across a page… and into readers’ hearts forever.”
We looked at each other a long moment, and she blinked back tears. Then she stood with her purse. “She had a spirit, you know? The kind of of spirit that would fill a room.”