A Million Little Pieces Of My Mind

This was my family in 1957, shortly before I began my first year of elementary school. My dad looks pretty healthy. But as I examine the photos taken through that year, I can see him decline.

I found first grade to be very confusing. I was used to people explaining things to me; but in first grade, it seemed, we were just supposed to know.

For example, they had time allocated each day to something called "reading". At the beginning of this time, half the kids were supposed to get out of their desks and line up, with their reading books, against the blackboard, where they would take turns reading, one sentence at a time, until all had had a turn. They would then repeat until the lesson was completed; at which point, those kids would return to their desks and the other half of the class would take their places.

And here was the problem: I was exactly on the line between halves. I was in the middle desk, in the middle row. And I had no idea which half of the class I was supposed to be reading with. And I was terrified of making a mistake (probably because of being given a bloody nose by the principal when I was in Kindergarten).

So I didn't go up with either group.

And Mrs. Buzanowski never noticed.

So, by Christmas, I wasn't able to read a thing. My mom finally realized what was going on and corrected the situation. But she didn't keep to herself that she was pretty sure I had, somehow, managed to make it all happen myself, somehow.

Plus, after that, Mrs. Buzanowski got herself an attitude. So, I hated her.

And then there was the time when I just did not want to walk down the street to my first grade class, I told Mom I didn't ever want to go to that school again. Mom explained that if I refused to attend Mount Virgin Elementary School, the law would force me to attend public school.

So? I asked. I had actually never heard of public school but was willing to entertain any alternatives.

You wouldn't like it, Mom warned, clearly grasping at straws. There are colored children there.

Colored children? I asked incredulously. Surely she was making this one up. What color? I was, of course, thinking of blue or purple or maybe green.

Black, Mom said.

Oh, well. I don't care, I said.

You will, she warned. Colored children smell funny.

Since the only black smell I knew was licorice, which I didn't like, I relented and finished out that year at Mount Virgin. But I saved that tidbit of information in that part of my brain reserved for Things I've Been Told That I Don't Really Believe. I mean, really. Different colors of children? It sounded too good to be true!

But life went on. I was an inventive kid. Here I am with a homemade "marionette", next to the broken TV set on which I taped pictures I drew and pretended to watch. Notice the missing crucifix on the wall above my bed. It was missing because I used to take it down and use it for an action figure.

As the year progressed, Dad seemed to spend more and more time at home; and the time he spent there was spent lying down. Mom said he was tired because of working the evening shift at Bendix.

Eventually, school let out in late May and I would never have to see Mrs. Buzanowski again. Not only because I had passed First Grade, but because we were about to move to a completely different state.