I didn’t want to go to kindergarten when it was time for me to go. All my friends were going to Humpty Dumpty Play School, but I hated it. I much preferred to stay at home and play by myself or with baby Sam in our room, near Mama.
I played school on my own, I didn’t need real school to go to yet. I had a grade book with the made up names of my students printed in it, plus a phonics book and reading books. I would play downstairs on the south porch where the piano was and conduct school as I thought it ought to go.
Mama would come in sometimes and smile at me. “You’re a good teacher,” she’d say as I wrote on my little chalkboard.
I loved being the teacher. “Sometimes I have to yell at my students,” I’d say. “They’re not always quiet.”
She’d nod. “Yes, sometimes teachers have to do that…” She’d turn and go away.
“Johnny, stop talking,” I’d say sharply to one of my imaginary kids. “If you don’t, I may have to put you in the corner…”
I cried every day when it came time to go to kindergarten. I just didn’t want to leave Mama. I went off and on over that year and played with play dough or colored with crayons or played outside on the swing set or on the slide. But the truth was, I didn’t see much sense in Humpty Dumpty Play School. Mrs. Heron, the teacher, was really, really tall, with gray hair and cat-eyed glasses. She didn’t smile very much. We did get to sing sometimes and Mrs. Heron played the piano. I liked that part, but that was about all.
When it came time for kindergarten graduation, my parents got a letter from Mrs. Heron saying I couldn’t graduate with the other kids because I hadn’t attended as much as they had. I could receive my diploma during the ceremony, but I would have to walk up from the audience, get it from Mrs. Heron, then go and sit back down with my parents. No cap and gown for me. I hadn’t finished the work because of my excessive absences. I was only getting to graduate at all out of the kindness of her heart.
I have never seen my mother so mad. I remember her calling up Mrs. Heron and yelling at her on the phone. “This is a little girl you’re talking about here. What possible difference can it make to let her stand up with the others and wear the cap and gown?”
Mrs. Heron wouldn’t budge. “If I make an exception for YOUR child, then I’ll have to make it for others…”
Mama told this to Daddy, who just sat and shook his head in disbelief. “She’s six years old,” he said.
They both looked at me with wrinkled up eyebrows and turned down mouths.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I don’t mind. I don’t like Mrs. Heron anyway.”
“Honey, sometimes people make stupid rules,” Mama said. “But, you just keep your head held high and walk right up and get that diploma anyway, you understand me? We are so proud of you.”
Mama took me out and bought me a new dress. It was a shiny plum color with a long sash and pretty zigzag stitching across the chest. She bought me a new pair of white socks and some shiny black dress shoes, too. And when I accepted my diploma, I did just like my Mama told me to do. I walked up straight and tall, looked Mrs. Heron in the eye, nodded my head and said, “Thank you.”
After I got my diploma, I turned and stared out in the sea of faces for Mama and Daddy before heading back down the aisle. Daddy gave me a big wave and a smile. But Mama’s face was all scrunched, like she might cry. I smiled at her so she would feel better. She laughed and smiled back. I smiled bigger. All of a sudden, the other parents began to clap and kept clapping until I got back to where my parents were and I’d crawled up into my mother’s lap. Her arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. She felt warm and soft, and she smelled good.
I was glad Mrs. Heron hadn’t let me graduate with everybody else. I much preferred sitting with my mama anyway. To me, Mama was where the love was.
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