I was jazzed about attending Kindergarten. Mega-jazzed. I’ll tell you why.
We were driving down Route 66 in Albuquerque at night, surrounded by a marvelous chaos of lights and bright signs. To my five-year-old eyeballs, all of those marks and squiggles on the signs were meaningless. However, I understood that, to the trained mind, these marks could be translated into… meaning. I tugged on my brother, Rod’s (8) shirt, and pointed to a sign, asking him, “What does that say?” At eight, he was proud to display his newly gained reading ability. I was awestruck as he read with such speed and dexterity! Magic. This was magic!
As we drove, he read more signs. And more signs. I listened as if he were an oracle. Or a poet.
This is all true. No exaggeration.
I asked, how are doing this? His explanation shook me to the core (and I have never forgotten his exact words), “When you learn to read, a whole new world opens up to you.”
I didn’t take these words figuratively. I looked around at the bright lights and the thousands of mysterious marks, and I understood his words in a fantastical sense. Rod (and my parents) were beholding a world that was invisible to me.
A WORLD!
I had to learn to read before I could see or enter this world! It was everywhere. But I must break the code before the scales would fall from my eyes!
Upon entering kindergarten I had no time to waste. I was ready to read. Quickly! No time for dilly-dally.
Instead, we began rehearsing the alphabet? Again and again and again. And learning cursive? I was no genius but, at this pace, I would never get to that world. Nothing was happening. I hated the monotony of kindergarten.
Christmas was drawing near (and yes, I had made it that far into the school year). On the last day of school, before Holiday vacation, the school was planning their Christmas gift exchange. I had never been to a gift exchange didn’t understand what it meant. I knew I had to bring a wrapped gift. Without telling my parents, I choose a Matchbox car from my own collection—not my very favorite car, but pretty damn awesome. “My sacrifice will make it more valuable to any lucky boy or girl,” I thought, as I wrapped it (as best I could).
Unfortunately, when I chose the gift, I was not aware of the small-gift-goes-last rule.
Before the exchange began, the teachers took each of our presents and placed each student into a large circle. I wasn’t paying much attention to the process because I was salivating over the size of some of the gifts! It was probable that I would get my hands on an actual big toy, the kind that Santa brought to us on Christmas morning. My mind was blown by the sheer amount of large shiny boxes. Look at all those toys! By the time we were all seated, I felt it from deep inside; I was going to get my hands on something awesome—I would definitely get a present that kicked ass on my used Matchbox car.
But… oh… what about the poor sap who ends up with my Matchbox car? It was the tinyest, shittiest looking gift in the pile. No one would choose that… not unless they were forced.
When the rules were explained, I realized, this whole thing was one big con. We hadn’t been randomly seated; each student had been seated relative to the size of their gift. Yes, we might be sitting in something that looked like a circle, but the boy to my left (having brought the largest gift) was first in line. Guess who was the last in line (based on the size of my gift)?
I couldn’t believe the teachers could be so illogical. So unfair. What if my tiny box contained a diamond ring? The teachers couldn’t know. They couldn’t judge by its size. Everyone knows that you can’t judge value by size.
I watched as child after child ran to fetch their gifts, tearing off the glittering paper, jumping up and down with joy, most of them ending up with pretty cool merch.
A day to remember.
At last, there was just me and the boy to my right. And two presents left. He took my Matchbox car. His disappointment was evident.
I forced a smile and bit my tongue as I ran to retrieve the only remaining present. I only remember that it was not used and it was slightly larger than my Matchbox car. I went home that day humiliated and disappointed.
But… Christmas vacation had begun! Yay!
No more kindergarten for a couple weeks. Rest. Wonderful food. Christmas day! Christmas presents! Christmas trees and lights and carols and Christmas TV specials (which back then only came on once a year). Paradise. But all good things must end.
If you’ve ever spent much time around a five-year-old you are aware that most of them don’t spend a lot of time planning far in advance. A few days before school was set to begin, the dread set in and I understood—I deeply understood—Kindergarten was not for me. I made the decision… no more kindergarten. But how was I going to achieve this? I’d have to play it by ear.
So the first day of school, after vacation, my mom drove me to school. When we arrived, I broke it to her, “I’m not learning to read and I’m not going back.” I did not mention the Christmas exchange, because I understood that she would not be sympathetic about my desire for a larger gift. Instead, I stuck to academics: the only argument I could win.
I made it clear to her (in no uncertain terms) that I hated school. I knew my alphabet backwards and forward but my teacher kept reviewing it again and again. I needed to learn to read. I made it clear: this was the end. I was not stepping foot into that classroom, no matter what she said or did. Needless to say, there was gnashing of teeth and shedding of tears.
Flummoxed, she said, “Let me go talk to your teacher.”
Then the most heinous thing happened.
I waited in the car for what seemed like forever. I was probably picking my nose or climbing over the seats or playing with the spiral light of the cigarette lighter when, unexpectedly, my entire kindergarten class came out to the car and began to bang on the windows of the car, slapping their hands, laughing and yelling, “Robyn, come back, Robyn, come back!”
Seriously? This is your attempt to change my mind? A stunt like this did nothing but increase my resolve. And my fury. And my confusion (remember, I was five). So I did the only logical thing I could think of: I curled up in the fetal position on the floor of the back seat and covered my ears with my hands. And I probably cried. I’m not saying I did, but I probably did.
Smart thinking.
I stayed in this position, waiting until the sound of the children vanished, and my mom got in the car and we drove away.
And this is how I dropped out of kindergarten and never went back.
I did eventually learn to read during the first and second grade where I realized Rod’s words were figurative. Bummer. Reading wasn’t disappointing. But nothing can really compare to a key that unlocks a fantastic realm.