Welcome to Kindergarten
Ellen, the Giant, and Me
We were five, Ellen and I. This was our first day of school. Her mom walked behind us. With no words spoken, our first decision was to skip our way to the end of our block. A hop, a jump, and we were on our way.
The handkerchiefs we both had pinned to our blouses bounced to the rhythm of our skipping. Up they flew — back again. When my mother had pinned mine, she said, “In case you need it, just ask one of your teachers to unpin it for you.”
I laughed, enjoying who we were, so excited about the day.
Got to the corner, waiting for E’s mom to catch up. A car or two on the street kept us from leaping ahead. Also, a mother’s hand on each of our shoulders. We squinted at the bright sun above us — both adorned by mother-made braids, mine totally black, Ellen’s blond to match the sun.
On the other side of the street stood P.S. 225. We had seen its large windows before when we waited for Ellen’s brother Josh. Now it would belong to us, too. One hand of ours nestled in the warmth of each of Ellen’s mom’s hands.
The three of us went up concrete steps, and E’s mom opened the door. We were in the building of our first school!
“It’s cold.”
“I know.”
It was a place where one whispered.
We stood, side by side on a marble floor. I reached down to touch it with four fingers. I didn’t like the way it felt.
Kids like us gathered near pretty ladies holding signs: girls each with their handkerchiefs pinned, and boys in long pants and short sleeved shirts. One boy wore a bow tie.
It looked like the ladies had all decided to wear the same kind of clothing — a colorful short sleeve blouse tucked inside a dark color skirt — where we couldn’t see any knees. They wore thin see-through stockings like our mothers wore. Even their shoes looked like someone had told them what to wear — black with a heel so small it didn’t look like it was there. Each had a thin, wooden stick with a large white circle attached to the top of it. The black letters on that white space told everyone where to find their rooms.
The ladies said things like, “Good morning children!” and “We’re glad to see you!”
Ellen’s mother looked from sign to sign.
We looked at the pictures on the wall — the kids in the pictures were smiley and doing things like jumping rope. In one, two boys were bouncing a Spaldeen ball. The ball went high up, near a tree. Bright sun. Two boys. Each hopeful. Spaldeen ball. The prize.
I told Ellen that it would have been too hard to catch the ball with only one hand. “I bet the ball landed on the grass.”
“Do you think one of those ladies would let us draw something funny on their circles?” Ellen covered her mouth. We both started laughing.
Ellen’s mom found our sign. “Girls, here’s your class!” We were back to holding hands. We started to skip. Couldn’t. Slippery floor.
My friend’s mother kissed her daughter, gave us both a hug, a big smile, and a wave. She turned, opened that heavy front door, held it with one hand and caught our eyes. Another big smile and she was gone.
We were on our own — hands tighter.
“What’s holding you up?!” The voice made us jump.
Was that the teacher? I felt cold all over again. “Is she talking to us?” I squeezed my lips together in a tight almost-no-whisper whisper.
Ellen’s head motion was a slow back and forth. “Don’t know. It’s not a nice voice.”
A boy had bent down to tie his shoe. Some kids went around him; others waited for him to finish.
“Let’s find the door to our room,” I said.
We found it and the Voice found us.
She was like a giant. I couldn’t tell if her head touched the ceiling. I didn’t know anybody else who had such big teeth; it looked like they were popping out of her mouth. What if they fell on my head? I stopped thinking about flying teeth when the Voice barked, “You two — whispering?! Get into your seats immediately — there, over there.” One pointed finger showed the way.
We froze. It was a big room. The other kids were finding their seats. An easel with large paper clipped to the top of it stood beside a cluster of tables. And beside the easel was a beautiful rocking horse. Its black eyebrows and eyelashes were happy-looking. It seemed to be smiling at us.
We snuck a look at each other, and E began again to say something, which I never heard.
An arm pushed its way between my friend and me. Ellen screamed as the arm attached itself to her arm. Her scream got louder as the arm dragged her and tossed her. The scream stopped after she landed on the beautiful white rocking horse. E’s body slid slowly to the floor.
With a low, growly voice, the person who owned the large arm said, “Stay there!”
Ellen’s hands covered her eyes. It didn’t matter. The tears rolled onto her first day of school outfit. I wondered if the horse could make his red and blue smile turn into a frown.
My scream took over as the Giant came for me. “Don’t move.” I didn’t. I couldn’t. She lowered her body, and opened the safety pin that held my nicely folded triangle shaped handkerchief. She shook the hankie. It didn’t look pretty anymore like when my mother put it on me.
I never got to ask anybody to unpin it.
The Giant waved my handkerchief at my friend. “Stop crying!” This to Ellen who might never stop.
I looked down at my unpinned hankie. She had needed both her hands to open the small safety pin. Her fingers looked like little hot dogs. I took my eyes off those super fat fingers for a moment. I made myself look again at her teeth. “I don’t need my hankie.” That was me.
This so-tall lady with a smile that wasn’t a smile plopped me back down on my chair. She stuffed that whole handkerchief into my mouth! My tears began all over again! They started to wet my white, soft handkerchief. “No more of this wailing!” There was some muffled crying from other kids.
The Giant stopped looking at Ellen and me. Her eyes darted around her kindergarten class. “When I say there is to be no talking,” her words came slowly through her teeth, “you will all remember what can happen when you don’t pay attention to me.” She marched to my friend. “Stand up. Go sit down on your chair.”
Now her dark brown skirt and big leather shoes turned. Just before she got to me, I could see there was a face around those teeth. She bent down, pulled the hankie from my mouth, shook it free of my extra tears. The poor, unhappy handkerchief was, once again, stuffed.
It landed in the tiny pocket on my skirt together with its pin. In the time Mrs. Aller fought to snap the safety pin closed, I saw an ugly nail at the end of each fat finger.
After that horrendous year, I never saw her again. Yet, her name stays implanted in a tiny part of my brain. After elementary school, no one in any other school I attended ever earned the dubious distinction of being a second Mrs. Aller.
