Memory One: Kindergarten

English accents at the ready?  Very well.  As a famous Englishman once said, "Engage."

(You may congratulate yourself if you thought Patrick Stewart.)

There are numerous accounts of my life before I gained consciousness, all gathered and haphazardly organized into a loving compilation known as "Xmas '91."  This home video is a brilliant capturing of my unconscious actions.  My intriguing re-telling of the classic storybook, "Once Upon a Potty," is emblazoned on the film for eternity.

However, seeing as I do not have a conscious memory of these events, I will not describe with the excruciating detail I intend to impart on the rest of these entries.  To set somewhat of a stage, I was born in Houston, and my family and I lived for a short year in an apartment there.  We then moved to Beechwood, a small neighborhood to the north of Angleton, Texas.

My first memory is my first day of kindergarten.  In those days, I slept in a T-shirt that was far too large for me.  I would routinely envelope myself in its folds, like a hermit crab burying itself in the sand.  In this memory, the light-blue shirt came down to my knees.  I have no memory of what I had for breakfast, but I imagine it was a simple, unassuming bowl of Rice Chex.  I walked outside into the dark breeze of my driveway to see my brother off.  The wind was blowing calmly, as a mother blows on a bowl of hot soup for her child.  I asked my mother, "What are we doing today?"  She responded, "You're going to school, too."

My recollection skips ahead now to the classroom of Mrs. Brit, a wonderful, wispy kind of woman.  She was small, but she would surround you lovingly, like sunlight on a windy day.  On the floor are rows of colored duct tape, on which the children are meant to sit.  Many of my fellow amoebas in this room I would forget until middle school, when we would be reunited.  We sat "Indian style" on the rows of duct tape and, after reciting the Pledge of Allegiance,  reviewed the letter 'A.'

"A, A, A, A, A.  Good, now what sound does the letter 'A' make?  Repeat after me.  Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."

"Aaaah, Aaaaah, Aaaah, Aaaah."

"Very good."

I remember being terribly bored during this year.  Mrs. Brit would ask us to write our names on our papers, and I would.  Meanwhile, the vast majority of younglings surrounding me would shoot their hands up like fireworks.  "Can you help me, Mrs. Brit?"  "Of course."  Meanwhile, I would continue with the assignment.  Connect the dots.  Very well, if you insist.  As I passed my pencil from point to point, I would munch on the Skittles on my desk.  "Can I have some?" asks a piercingly cute girl sitting across from me.  Her name is Amanda Ochoa.  "Okay."  She reaches into the bag and picks out a red one.  "Not the red ones," I say.  She makes a face, but agrees, and takes a purple one instead.  I am in love.

We return to the stripes on the floor and Mrs. Brit holds up cards with pictures of clocks and coins.  We talk about time and money, the backbone of American Consumerism, the first thing I am taught in my standardized education.  Wonderfully American.

Bathroom break.  Everyone lines up, in the same order we were sitting on the colored stripes.  We walk single-file to the bathroom, and two at a time, we are directed into the bathrooms.  As we exit, we are led to a community sink-and-soap station to wash our hands.  From here we go outside to the blacktop to play.  I mostly sit around and watch.  I play one or two games of hop-scotch in the corner of the playground.

I am picked up in a blue van and taken to Noah's Ark Day-Care.  My teacher here is Mrs. Sue, a large woman with blazing red hair.  I learn that we are allowed to bring one toy each day to day-care.  I don't have a toy today.  Instead I play with green plastic army men, using a Playskool plastic kitchen as a battleground.  I play with Justin Williams, a skinny black boy.  We discuss the Power Rangers and the Ninja Turtles.  I vehemently claim that the Blue Ranger is the best, but he disagrees and heralds the Red Ranger as the mightiest defender of good.  We agree to disagree.

We are directed to play outside for a short time, then to a play-room, and finally, to a large sitting room.  A single television set is wheeled to the front-center of the room.  The children clamor to the front, and debate rages across the room.  I sit in the back.  We settle on Legends of the Hidden Temple.  I cheer for the Silver Snakes.  After the Red Monkeys (much to my disappointment) rebuild the Shrine of the Silver Monkey and win their bikes, we watch the Power Rangers.  The time passes, and the various television shows continue, and I notice that one by one, the murder of children sitting "Indian style" has thinned down.  This continues for quite a while, until I am left alone with three other little children.

"What time is it?" I ask. 
"A little after five, sweetheart."
"Where's my mommy?"
"She'll be here soon."
"Did she forget me?  Did she leave me here?"
"Of course not, baby!"

I erupt into tears.



Happy story, really.  I assume my mother appeared shortly after to retrieve me, but my memory fails me, and understandably so.  I came to expect soon after that I would typically be the last one picked up from day-care.  That trend continued in the summers at Our Lady Queen of Peace summer school, when my father would routinely pick me up long after all the other children had disappeared.

You will come to learn soon that I had a relatively pathetic childhood.  Full of happy moments, to be sure, but with an overarching tone of my own depression leaked in.  My family lovingly called my attitude "crabby" until I reached the age of twelve.

I was not a happy child.



Enough of me for now.  I hope you enjoyed some sense of comfort as you read about my first memory.  Perhaps I have sparked your own minds and pulled you back into an angry, lonely world which you long to forget.  Enjoy the grueling climb back out, and I'll return to my mind-figments soon.  You will join me, won't you?  Wonderful.