How hard it can be

Kindergarden

My dad would pick me up from kindergarten almost every day, that's what I remember best. We would then ride home on his motorcycle. I remember how big it was, and I remember clinging onto his back, letting the wind and the speed wipe all my problems away, all the other kids mocking, and jeers. I would sit there clinging to my dad like a lifeline, as my small, small world tried to swallow me whole. Those are some of my first memories.

I grew up in a very small community, only a couple hundred people max. We would all get together a few times a year in one of our houses for a party, or for dinner. Because of this the number of kids was limited at best. There were about ten of us in total. I was the youngest by four years. The oldest of the "kids" was almost fifteen years older than me! Because of this when we were at school it looked very different for me than it did them. They had years of experience on me. I was still relatively an only child at home at the time and had never really been mixed with other kids before, having not gone to preschool. I didn't know what sharing was, or how to do it. I didn't know how to make friends, or how a friend was supposed to act. I didn't know when I was being taken advantage of. I had never been teased before, so I wasn't able to realize what was an insult and what wasn't. I also didn't know how to deal with unfavorable situations. This made the age gap even harder than it would have been otherwise.

All our parents got along well, so we grew up together. All the older kids got along, having not only grown up together but also being the same age, and having had similar experiences. They had gone to preschool together, and had they had other friends in town that they had made previously, while all that I had was them.

At school they would gang up on me. I was different, and while they had friends in town, they couldn't see them very often because of how far away they lived. I always was an easy victim too. I was always there, and I considered them my friends. Mostly, looking back on it, it was because my parents told me they were my friends. I would go to school and would go to my separate class to learn colors, shapes, easy math, and how to read. They would go to their class, a blended class with third grade through fifth grade, and in the other building sixth grade through eighth grade.

We all had lunch together though. We would all flood the playground, the big strong kids getting first dibs on where they wanted to eat and what they wanted to play on, with the rest of us following behind. I learned early on that you never show your opinion. If you do, they will take advantage of that and will make sure that they are always in that place or doing what you want to do. I also learned that teachers, despite all that they say, pick sides, and typically they chose the students that are the most charismatic, the best looking, the smartest, or most headstrong, never the weakest link. I happened to be the weakest link, and sadly I wasn't a very cute kid. I didn't know how to act around adults very well, so I often came off as a bit rude, or self-absorbed, maybe even a little arrogant. I was hard to talk to.

That being said, I had my dad, and I had Birdy, she was my teacher, although private touter fits better because I was the only student in the kindergarten through third grade class. Since I was her only student, she didn't have to pick sides and we became close, while playing house, doing a research project, or arguing on what shape a deformed block was.

What you are probably beginning to ask is how I remember all of this, and you would be surprised to find out that I remember it all in watercolor. Fuzzy but still there. The smile of Birdy, how small the teacup looked in her big hand. How hard the tether ball could smack you if an older kid hit it aiming at your small unsuspecting face. How hot the slide was in the summer, and how the metal would burn the back of your legs if you weren't wearing pants. How hot you would get when you wore pants to school every day so that the slide wouldn't burn you when the older kids pushed you down it. How high my dad could push me on the swing when we would go to the school playground after school. And how it felt like I was flying. How it felt like I would never, ever have to step on the evil ground again. How it felt like gravity no longer applied to me, and how it felt that I alone could fly away to a place, with just me and my dad. No one could trip me in the corridors, or make me fall off the monkey bars, or ever push me off the sandbox rim.