|
|
| |
|
|
Heroes Don’t Always Wear Capes
“Preschool with Sister Mary-Catherine”
**************************************
There is nothing a child looks forward to more than the first day of school. Unless, of course, you’re me and it happens to be the first time in your life you are ripped from the arms of the only caretakers you’ve known and catapulted into a large room, covered in pastel peach paint, where you will be forced to make new friends and learn how to tie your shoes.
I am not a fan of preschool; Montessori, as it is known. I believe this name is a philosophy behind its education, as well as a title for kinder care. This experience is my first introduction to the world of nunneries. Women, all quite unattractive, are dressed in heavy black robes and wearing habits to hide their hair-don’ts. These are not inviting images to a little girl who likes to play with pretty Barbie dolls and watch pretty ladies on television, as I am accustomed to doing after having been indoctrinated into the fine drama of daytime television through my mother’s addiction to “Days of Our Lives.”
As I approach my first day, I am under the impression this is a place my mother will be attending with me. This is a false impression, and, more accurately, a tightly spun web of lies to create a scenario that will lure me out the door and into the station wagon. I am four years old, but I am independent and single-minded. I have a strong desire to stay home and find out what happens to Susan, the beautiful Susan Hayward on my regular soap. I am far more interested in fictitious characters than I am in the reality awaiting me at Montessori.
But, here I stand, shrieking, and sobbing, and making quite a spectacle of myself. I am too shy at the thought of walking over to introduce myself, so instead I aim for the less obvious approach; I announce my arrival at the front door with a bloodcurdling scream.
My decibel level is ill-befitting anyone over the age of two who is not planted dead center of a Toys ‘R Us aisle, clutching desperately a new “Barbie Goes to the Beach” outfit, which is now only a bent up piece of cardboard, squeezed in a choke hold by little fingers wrapped tightly around it.
It’s not as if my mother isn’t accustomed to a good, crowd pleasing spectacle, for which she, herself, has become known. She has somewhat of a rhythm for creating some bloodcurdling screams anywhere she deems appropriate: the grocery store, the church parking lot, the public library. She always blames it on us kids. Calling us for dinner. Calling us to the car. Calling us from a quiet fabric store by standing in the middle of the room, keys held high in the air, jingling wildly.
At the sound of this signal, we are to either all come directly to her at once, so she can do a head count before heading to the car, or until she spies us outside the glass door, away from strangers who might associate us with this unabashed woman. The looming threat is always repeated before we head out on these little excursions: “If you don’t come when I call you, I’m leaving you behind.” One time, she didn’t see me through the other side of the glass door I scampered to when I heard those keys begin to bellow. I finally made it to the car just as she began revving up the engine.
************************************
So, my mother is very used to spectacles, having masterminded a few in her day. The one I am gainfully immersed in now is not at all of the caliber to register any kind of response from her, other than to go ahead with her morning plans of dropping me off and expecting Sister Mary-Catherine to deal with me the way she had lovingly helped other tots acclimate on their first day of school. And so she leaves.
Here I am. Alone. No one has come to my rescue, and no one seems bothered that this little girl in her peach gingham romper is seemingly uncomfortable with the idea of venturing inside. Sister Mary-Catherine gives it a go.
She is an old nun. She has a face that blends with the other faces, tucked under the habits that all of the nuns wear, and spectacles that only frame her gray eyes with a rim of white metal. Perhaps she was a blonde in her youth. I only know that she is now definitely gray, as measure in the tint of her furrowing brows that match the single strand of hair coiling from her chin.
“Would you like to come in and join the other children?” are the only word with which she greets me. Can’t anybody see I am in need of a tissue?
“I w-want m-my M-mom-mmmy!” I manage to howl through labored breathing.
“Sorry, but your Mommy has gone for a little while and she has left you here with us. You may sit outside here on the porch until you collect yourself and can be part of the group.” There is no negotiating with this nun. She’s had it. My tantrum does not work as well as the ones I have seen my mother throw. We always come running, gushing over her, hoping one of us will offer some clever remark to cheer her miserable disposition right up before dad gets home from work.
But alas, it seems like a nice day, and there are some really big swing sets on the lawn, so I decide to stay outside until I feel I can join the rest of the group. I don’t think this makes a very good impression on Sister Mary-Catherine. I also think it leads to my later difficulties of being labeled a troublemaker and, thus, having to penance in the secret room.
What I do come to like at Montessori isn’t in the group play or the floor map that helps us learn our states or the xylophone that you get to play if you can spell its name, nor does my enjoyment stem from the indoor jungle gym which, in theory, teaches us how to interact with others while using our imagination to create and pretend. No. My favorite part of Montessori is free time, where I can conveniently find an excuse to roam nearest to Eric Webb.
************************************
But Sister Mary-Catherine does not like the idea that I like boys. I think she is rather horrified at the idea that I am turning out to be a little too independent for her taste. After all, they do not breed independent thinking at Montessori if it means that your individualism goes against the grain of the Montessori cloth. Apparently, my individualism is standing out among the other independent thinkers in training. As far as I can tell, I am getting on exceedingly well. I am making choices---choosing to stay outside on my first day to enjoy the sun and a good round on the swings---I am making friends. Is there a rule against boyfriends in preschool?
************************************
“Child, please step into the viewing room with us. We’d like to have a word with you.” Nothing about these words bring me any comfort. I feel as though I have done something sinful. Furthermore, what is the “viewing room?”
I peek over my shoulder to scan the room for Eric Webb and I only see a tussle of blond bed head bobbing, as the person attached beneath is flying marine pilots into enemy territory. I am alone. Even Eric Webb can’t save me now. He is engaged in war with Jeffrey Thomas. His pilots are fighting for their lives as they try to deflect one bomb after another.
*************************************
“It has come to our attention, Missy, that you are distracting the others from learning and creating by stifling their imagination with your own vision,” Sister Mary-Catherine begins. In a way, I think this meant as a compliment. Aren’t they, in actuality, telling me that I show great leadership potential as I share my distinct vision with other playmates and that they, in turn, buy into my ideas and play along? The only problem I can see is that my name is not Missy.
****************************************
“Furthermore, we have been watching your interactions with one of our brightest young students and find that you are monopolizing his time to grow and experience individually the philosophies behind Montessori’s school of learning. Eric Webb needs to engage in role-playing with other peers who express similar interests. These activities typically include war games, where boys can simulate what it will be like to grow into responsible men one day. They must focus on strategic maneuvers, and distractions from on-looking little girls can be cause for errors in judgment,” Sister Mary-Catherine continued.
I am not sure what she is saying, but, again, it sounds to me as if she might be complimenting me for my astuteness at recognizing brilliance in the room, and seeking after it. After all, she identified Eric as the smartest child in our group. That must make me at least the second smartest because I picked him to be my best friend. I fact, I have selected in him to be my husband. But I think I will save this information for later.
“We have also observed that some of your skills are not yet on par with the other students, and by now, you should be proficient at lacing and tying your shoes---both of them.” It went on. “Our decision has been discussed by all the nuns, and we are in agreement that your free time will be restricted until you are able to master tying your shoes, both of them, within the appropriate time limit expected. Until you can achieve this level of performance, you are not to be swirling about Eric Webb, nor guiding any of the other children on the Eiffel Tower tour of the jungle gym. You will not be allowed to swing outdoors, nor play with paints, and certainly not allowed to play the xylophone. And, perhaps, you will not be invited to sit in the learning circle when Smoky the Bear comes to visit on Friday, unless you have mastered tying your shoes, both of them.” It ended there. Almost.
*****************************************
I begin to feel my bottom lip push out and quiver uncontrollably. The sad, turned down smile is beginning to force its way onto my face. I do not want to cry. I do not want this nun to know she has hurt me beyond belief. I do not want her to know that I have actually begun to enjoy Montessori and that I have forgotten all about “Days of Our Lives” and my mother’s irate escapades.
*************************************
Finally, Sister Mary-Catherine puts her wrinkled and knotted fingers on my shoulder, as if to pat me, but it was more to hold me in place, while she asks me again, “Missy, do you understand what is expected of you at Montessori?”
I can only reply, “My name is not Missy. It’s Vandra Zandinski,” which lands me with another choice to make. Of course, not the one I would have liked. That would have been too easy. Had the question been, “Would you like to leave the Montessori or stay with the group?” I would have clearly chosen to stay, because anywhere near to Eric Webb is better than any option I have waiting for me at home. However, the question remains, “Would you like to sit in here or go outside until you can return to the group?”
So, for the second time this year, I choose to go it alone outside with only my sadness to comfort me. I may not have learned the states this year or found the right melody on that xylophone. I surely did not get the time needed to discover my inner Picasso or to round up tour groups to continue the guided experiences I would lead of the Eiffel tower, or the caves beneath the sea that I vividly constructed out of our indoor jungle gym parts and some imaginary walls. But, I do learn to tie my shoes, both of them, within the acceptable one-minute limit.
And I learn something else that only Sister Mary-Catherine can teach me. In her own way, she spelled out for me the difference between being a winner and being a bad influence. It doesn’t have much to do with your knowledge base; it has everything to do with perception and first impressions.
Once you set foot on new terrain in front of a crowd, you are being judged and labeled. Right or wrong, this makes it easier for people to identify you.
Independent thinkers who follow our rules fit nicely over here with the other children who are awaiting instruction in self-discovery.
Independent thinkers who outsmart the group, rise to the top and are allowed to play war games and receive other special privileges, while getting away with bloody murder behind the scenes so long as another person can be called the scapegoat.
Independent thinkers who choose the unpopular answers, who do not conform, who have loud and brash mothers, who take charge where it appears the masses will not, are carefully examined, and when the evaluation is complete, your achievements will either be overlooked, underplayed, ignored entirely or, in the rare instance, held up as a competitive example to emulate.
In my case, Sister Mary-Catherine only inspires me to work harder at creating a better first impression so that I will be given opportunities in the future to prove that I am a worthy contender to lead and be followed.
|
|
|
|
|
