A Boy Alone

I cried my first day of school. 

Looking back, there were several reasons for that. For one thing, I had never gone to kindergarten. I suppose that is where most children get over the shock of abandonment into an unfamiliar environment. Many of the other students were old hands at this sort of thing already, and later were not slow to express their scorn at my babyish behavior.

For another thing, I was used to having a family support group, to running in a pack with my brothers, to being a follower rather than an independent unit of my own. True, Mike was in the Second Grade right next to me, but once class started he might as well have been on the moon. I was on my own.

And my teacher was an unknown quantity. I was used to hearing about Mike’s First Grade teacher, Mrs. Bilnitzer, but she had been moved to another class. Mrs. Roberts was an unknown quantity, who knew not of Babels and our ways, and we knew not hers. She was acting rather sternly, as any teacher having to wrangle little kids must be to start with, and I was taking it personally, and feeling the stress of having to learn class procedures correctly or being, for all I knew, “doomed”.

I was rescued from my emotional distress by the teacher’s aide, Mrs. Dammon, who came over to comfort me while Mrs. Roberts continued on with class instructions. Mrs. Dammon had a face as rough and kind and comforting as an oatmeal raison cookie, always smiling. She wore black cat-eye glasses, which I found funny and distracting. After a few moments I felt I had an ally in class and was able to settle down and apply myself to learning with renewed determination. But I think my behavior had been noted on my permanent record, in more ways than one.