First Day of School

Anna Sophia tells the story of her harrowing first day of school.  This is a semi- autobiographical account of a young girl's first experience with society.  

It was a September morning in 1948 and mother was dressing me for my first day of school.  In advance of this momentous occasion she had purchased all the items I would need to be a first grade student at the public school. A metal lunch box with a thermos; red patent leather shoes;  a supply of white anklet socks;  yellow galoshes;   a blue rain coat with white Scottie dogs on the pockets;   a green wool coat with a black velvet collar and matching black velvet hat that tied under my chin and had ear flaps;  and five bright  plaid dresses with white cuffs and collars.

I remember standing on the kitchen table so mother could pin up and later hand stitch the he hem of my dresses.  I was small for my age and my clothes always required alterations.   Although I was told that all of these preparations were for something called school, I had no idea what school meant.  There were no books in our house.  My mother and father were not book people.    I had coloring books and paper dolls, but that was the extent of it.  My father told me wonderful stories but they didnt come from a book.  

 A boy next door, several years older than me, taught me the alphabet song, but  it was just that, a song.   I had no concept of letters or of combinations of letters and their use in forming words.  I knew only the spoken word and the meanings behind the spoken word.  But I clearly did not comprehend the meaning of the word school.  If I had, I wouldn't have been so complacent, so cooperative, so trusting.   

Mother's friend, Helen, drove us to school on the first day. Helen waited outside in her car while  Mother took me by the hand and walked me across the playground, up the stairs and through the big double doors. Mrs. Schieble greeted us as we entered her first grade classroom.  She had blond hair and a soft voice.  She showed me where to sit but I wouldn't let go of my mothers hand.  I had never been in a room with so many other children and had no intention of staying there without my mother.  I put my thumb in my mouth and buried my head in her.  She pleaded with me to sit down at my desk but I refused.     After a while she told me that she had Helens car keys and that she had to go out and give the keys to Helen and then she would come right back.  I waited for a long while, with my thumb still in my mouth, until I realized it was a trick and started crying.  There was another girl who was also crying.  Mrs. Schieble called us cry babies.   

The next day was much worse.   Mother put me on a big  yellow school bus, kicking and screaming.  I was terrified.  My fear and horror over what was happening to me was so intense, that even today when I think of it, I can feel the panic, but in a detached way.   I refused to take a seat.  That would be committing myself to the horrible situation that I found myself in. The bus driver yelled at me and said I had to take a seat or I was going to make all the other kids late for school.   I didn't care.   I thought about my half-eaten peanut butter toast still sitting on the kitchen table.  I remembered mother saying, "Come on slowpoke, finish that toast or you'll miss your bus."     I didn't think it was actually going to happen.   A bus coming to pick up  me?  Never!  No  way!   I guess I was in denial.   

Between sobs I tried to tell the bus driver that I didn't  finish my peanut butter toast.  The bigger kids started laughing and singing, "Cry baby cry, stick your finger in your eye."   I threw up all over my brand new shoes.  Everyone was saying, "Phew !"   The bus started moving again.  I lost my balance and fell on the floor.  I bit my lip and my tongue  and  I  was bleeding.  The bus stopped and the bus driver yelled,  "Get up!  Get up off that floor right this minute and get in your seat or get off the bus!"    

I couldn't get off the bus because we were down around the bend in Hell's Corner where all the juvenile delinquents lived,  but  he  didn't seem to care when I pointed that out to him so I sat down, thoroughly humiliated, next to a girl who  smelled like  buttered popcorn.   She was  picking her nose and giggling.  She reached into her pocket and handed me a lolly-pop.   It tasted like lemon flavored blood.