When I was five, the summer before first grade, I was a kindergarten teacher. I played school. While the other little girls began promising themselves in sickness and in health to boys in polygamous relationships marked by rings forged of grass, I tried to trap kids in the basement. I was the Sphinx of Marshall St. Anyone who wandered into the maze of our front lawn was ushered down the stairs and into my mother's castaway seating--desks. I pulled out my materials--forgotten items from around the house and toys that had taught my older brother how to read. I didn't have the skinny chalk like my teacher did but my parents wanted to encourage my creativity and time outside, but not too far, so I had an arsenal of sidewalk chalk. Cousins and old classmates became each others peers as I took my place in front of the row of chairs. I took out my chalk and my easel and began deliberately practicing my name and urged others to practice their own. If I had had the choice, I would have spent my summer in that basement, teaching. However, my class rebelled. My arranged marriage was to be held the next day. We would draw the aisle on the cement in the backyard with my classroom chalk. My dreams of teacherdom would be focused down a different path. The next day, I was to be married to my best student with handwriting better than mine, who had already been married the day before.
I am going to be a kindergarten teacher. My formal training for the school I will be at will start on Monday. I don't think I could be happier.
-Theresa
