Long Ago (1972): Kindergarten, crayons and left-handedness

"A little more time could be taken in her written work and colouring although in the past few weeks she has shown considerable improvement. With practice making the round letters properly I'm sure this will correct itself. This is very common in left-handedness."

And so the comment read on my first Kindergarten report, in that winter of 1972.
I'm surprised by my strong reactions as I look back through my report cards. I had not expected this journey to be an emotional one. I am now aware that I have indeed rewrote my story, through my eyes, throughout my life. These comments, over the years, do not describe the young Judy that I myself remember. The fairy tale of my own creation has been tarnished by the perspective of reality.

If you had asked me prior to reading this report card - and I imagine that it's the first time I've truly read my early reports with the discerning eye of adulthood - anyways, if you had asked me if I was always so neat in my work, I would have said, "absolutely." I taught primary after all. I can't dismiss this comment by suggesting it was a random event. The same comment reappears on several occasions in a variety of ways throughout elementary school.

I can live with the messy writer part to an extent, one, because the teacher had the good graces to state that there had been effort applied. (It's always a nice gesture to compliment your hanging victim.) Two, I could always fall back on that old friend, handedness.

Silly really, because I don't recall much ado about left- handedness as a young child, apart from my appalling use of standard scissors. But my teacher did not comment on my lack of manual dexterity.

The real blow to my system was that she wrote down, in ink, that I did not take enough time and care with my colouring. Nothing at that time in my life was more sacred to me than colouring. Nothing. I'm glad that my five year old self was not aware of this report.
Colouring was a huge part of my formative years. I loved to colour and I especially loved colouring books. An occasion did not go by, birthday, Easter, Christmas, that I didn't receive a colouring book. I loved crayons especially - the Crayola kind-the slim ones that came in a package with a cover, not the big, chubby ones that were often missing their paper wrappers, those odd stubs that were all thrown together in a communal basket on the table. I was very cautious of those crayons. They had snot on them. I know this for a fact because I remember the exact boy at my table who picked them up and stuck them up his nose and made gruesome faces at me with his purple and yellow plugged nostrils.

He lived up the street from me and was a buffoon even at five. He once picked up a pair of scissors that sat in a metal coffee tin, those blunted ones with the round holes that did not quite fit my left hand, well, he picked up those scissors and he proceeded to cut off his hair, snippet by snippet, coarse red hair falling on the table in front of me like the shavings spilling out of the pencil sharpener on the wall. The rest of us at the little circular table sat in silence watching this early self mutilation in a sense of shock - little mouths all resembling Spaghetti- O's.

When the damage had been done, my teacher noticed. She asked why we didn't call her over. We were still frozen in a Spaghetti-O state. I knew he was a problem child. I didn't want to be at his table because he was big, loud and scary. It bothered me that the table groupings had been arranged that way. I was a teacher pleaser from a very early age and would not complain about my seatmates. I often wondered why I had the misfortune of having to sit at the table with this big buffoon. I had no way to know that I may have been placed there as a model of good behaviour, if not good penmanship.

In my defence, I would like to state that I did apparently exhibit a drawing in the school art show as the Kindergarten representative. It was noted in my "School Days Treasures" book as an important event. Therefore, I must have a been a great "colourer," right? But wait, on further reflection, I need to disclose that my Kindergarten teacher also lived just 2 houses down from me (and about a block from the buffoon boy) and was close friends with my parents. Another blow to my fictionalized memory. It is likely that this teacher may have picked me on the basis of this friendship. Or worse, what if I was a pity pick? That's it, isn't it? I was a pity pick. I wasn't selected for my talent in art, that is, my colouring skills; I was chosen most likely on the basis of my good behaviour, my noted effort to improve, and the nepotistic duty of friendship.

One last thought occurs to me. In my Treasure book there are report cards and stories, speeches, and letters. A Mother's Day card or two. But in my Kindergarten folder my Mom has not preserved any of my colouring samples, including the piece that must have been exhibited. I have a fuzzy memory of it on display in the gymnasium mounted on dark construction paper. It was on some form of divider by the climbing apparatus. I remember being with my parents and pointing to my picture, but I don't remember the picture itself. So, now I'm left wondering about why these pictures were not saved. I have new thoughts about my childhood. My memories must now contain warts and all. I'm glad that I didn't know these things as a little girl. After all, we all hope for the fairy tale.