At some point in between the ceiling leaking and bringing up boxes from the shared basement of our apartment complex; I made the connection that we were probably moving on to something else. We had been around a bit, mainly apartments and a couple shared houses, but after what felt like a long drive through the night we stood in front of our very own house. A little strange to get my head around; I mean we have two whole extra bedrooms and three bathrooms, which seemed excessive at first. The basement is completely ours and not connected to anyone else’s. The front and side yards are also ours to play and plant in. Again, very strange. The neighborhood is quiet and built in a circle, the buildings nearby quaint and usually empty of people but full of expensive items. We could walk to two different schools, neither of which I was ready for yet given my four year old self did not make the cut off. Oh the library! That, honestly, was the selling point.
A lot about that time blurs together. I usually condense many of my younger childhood memories making it seem like it all happened at age four; when it was probably more like three to six. Preschool became my first place of constant observation. When we would sit down to eat we had to do it at the table; we could not just sit on the ground with our food like we did at home. We could make requests of our adult teachers as long as we said please. People who talked loudly were always heard first, but also more likely to get in trouble, unless they were answering questions or being funny when appropriate. With so many instructions from different teachers, I didn’t want to mess it up out of fear that it would be more obvious I was an outsider. The phrase “common sense” was thrown around a lot. Originally I thought common sense meant the understanding that people of differing backgrounds brought their own set of commonalities that built a communal sense. What’s sensical about assuming a singular form of thought on how things ought to be done? Living as a minority in a homogeneous environment was having its effect. At least the teachers were usually clear about their expectations, making it easier to know how to do things right. The other children were harder to understand.
How and when to play what game, bartering crayons and pudding cups, and what sometimes felt like the acting out of a predestined play titled, “Finding Real Friends.” A place where I could see how people functioned based on social norms I had only recently realized I needed to adjust to. I guess wanted is a better word for it. It was important to me to make the most of where I was; I had to find a way to be accepted by those that were in the norm, so that once on the inside I could be completely myself and they would have to see it. Otherwise, people can go their whole lives not knowing that those walking beside them are uniquely themselves, or worse, that they even exist. Of course there is a lot of room for error in that plan, and much longer conversations on who and what the “norm” looks like, but nonetheless it was the initial plan of a four year old to make it through a confusing time.
Towards the end of my preschool chapter I recall having a test. My parents were brought in to see how I performed certain tasks; one including a scale and adding weighted objects to find equilibrium. Somewhere in my mind is a filing cabinet drawer just for the general feeling of stress, in which folders from my entire existence that link to that feeling are sent. That memory is one of them. That test was judged by other people and then noted down in a permanent record proving my ability. I was in preschool and I had begun the race. Every comparison, every grade collected, every check marked approval spotlighted what I had yet to accomplish, and more terrifyingly what my record stated I probably did not have the capacity to succeed in. To add to that, I realized that all the work I put in to assimilate and achieve based on set social expectations were not recorded for future reference. Meaning I had to prove it over and over to every new person I met, and consistently repeat approved actions every time I was around them. I started to feel I was playing a part too well; eagerly looking for a corner to shed that skin and come back to the light.
The light is a place of pureness. Not that I am without flaw, I am perfectly flawed, but that place is where every feeling and action is true. It exists, mentally and physically, every moment that answers are found or missed, and feelings are felt or deflected, without filter for the sake of how it would be seen by others. I don’t stand there all the time, even now, but it’s doors are always open. They opened in preschool, but not from my own doing. I had built a sincere connection with one of the teachers; a woman whose smile made me want to smile and whose skin was dark brown like mine. She gave me pep talks and knew how to make me laugh. Seeing her sit in the corner was enough to know I had a place to go if I needed. I could walk over and have nothing of specific importance to say, but whatever I did say would be heard. Anything could start a conversation worth having. She wasn’t my teacher; she wasn’t the one that stood in front of the class or spoke the most at our graduation, but she was essential to my safe space there. When the tests began and it started to sink in how complex life could get, my mind would drift to an image of her. That petrifying thought became more than just bearable: it was doable, achievable, succeedable.
I only remember her first name; the way her eyes looked when she laughed, and how her hair stood when braided and tied up high. Yet she is to this day an inspiration to me. Everything I have accomplished I believe is due in part to the faith she instilled in me. Her existence, momentary in my life as it was, improved me in the ways I feel matter the most. I’ve brought her to every stage of my life, and I grow more and more grateful for those warm exchanges as life continues.
So on that note,
I will say good morning/afternoon/evening/night.
Till next type.
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