I KNOW NOW WHAT I KNEW THEN (Part Three)

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Part 3

Since my father needed our blue Chevy van to drive to work (and we lived in the country), I did not attend kindergarten.  (As a matter of fact, my only sibling who did attend was my younger brother who came along 12 years later--by then, we had two cars and fewer children living at home.)  So my first experience with "real school" came in the fall of first grade.

My mom enrolled me in August.  Oh, the thrill of being in these hallowed halls that had filled the lives of my siblings (and my imagination) for my entire life!  Now, at last, it was my turn.  But the principal came to my mother and said that I would need to take an assessment to show that I was ready for first grade (since I had "skipped" kindergarten).  He instructed her to bring me back in a few days for this very important test.  He smiled and reassured me that all would be fine and that this was a formality of some sort.  Now I was nervous.

When we arrived home, I remember being coached on the basics... repeatedly...by each and every sibling. Could I recite my a-b-c's?  Of course.  Could I count to 100? Duhhhh.  Could I write the alphabet?  Piece of cake.  Numbers? How many do you want? Do some simple math? Of course; and, being from a large family and knowing a lot about sharing, I understood fractions and simple division, as well.

Even so, I was engulfed in the home version of 1970's test prep, right there in my little white farmhouse where learning had always been naturally fun.

As scheduled a few days later, we returned to the 3-story brick building laden with gorgeous windows.  I was too nervous to notice the spacious playgrounds and towering pine trees.  It was time for the screening procedures to see if my skills were sufficient.

A lady came and led me away.  I remember my mother's assurances that I would do just fine and that she would be waiting for me.  I was so painfully shy (hard to believe, I know) that I recall not particularly responding when this school-stranger spoke to me.  But when it came time to participate in the assessment, I suddenly found my voice and actually enjoyed showing this task master that I was worthy of attending her school.

The only thing that was foreign to me was matching colors and shapes in a wooden puzzle that presented various patterns; but that was easy enough, as endless hours of playing with Legos paid off.  I remember the lady asking me to count to ten, and I insisted on demonstrating my ability to count to 100.  I made her wait and listen.  She asked me to write my name; I did so; she asked if I could write some words for her, as well. She asked, she received..

She eventually took my hand and led me back to my mother, who was waiting in the green-tiled hallway. The lady whispered something to the principal.  He smiled, turned to us, and announced, "Christine passed her tests with flying colors.  We will see her in first grade in a couple of weeks!"  I felt as though I had won a prize.

\I relished hearing my mom repeat those words, "...passed with flying colors..." to my brothers and sisters and, after he came home from work, to my father.  I felt reassured that school would be all I had dreamed of.  I had proof that I was ready; even the principal had affirmed this.

Now I know that even by today's standards, a first grade teacher would be thrilled to receive a "new" student who could read, write, and reasonably do math so well at the beginning of the year.  I was a lucky kid.

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School started.  I was scared to pieces by my strict teacher.  I felt shy... and I remember feeling distressed when we had to spell our names with linking cubes; I was kept in from recess because I couldn't finish "C-h-r-i-s-t-i-n-e" quickly enough... so all of the kids with names like Sue, Joe, Sam, and Beth went outside while the pitiful ones with longer names like Christine, Matthew (who sat in front of me), and William stayed inside to finish.  Even at a young age, I recognized the misfortune of having a long name.  I told every teacher after that to call me "Chris".  And so it has been ever since.



\It turned out that I wasn't so great at the worksheets, though; now I know that they were useless to me, as I had already mastered the letter recognition, phonics, and easy sight words that were presented.  I still did them dutifully; however, my teacher talked to me (and my parents) about my "problem with neatness."   Because I needed to write or color more neatly, I earned a "C" in reading!  The kids who couldn't read but were neat with their papers got A's...


Now I know that the teacher did not differentiate for me, and she should have... and she should have looked at what I was able to do and pushed my learning from there... and that if work was correct, shouldn't it still be right--even if it isn't as neat as we would like?  In second grade, this trauma continued when I received an "F" on a coloring page about Abraham Lincoln!  Ahhhh... the mysteries of grading practices...  finally, one of my sisters took me aside and showed me how to color inside the lines by outlining everything and pressing lightly, moving in one direction.  Nice metaphor, isn't it?  I guess I was a lucky kid to have someone around who could help me with coloring!