The Kingdom of Grade One
The earlier sunsets and the cooling evenings remind me of going back to school – especially Grade One with Miss Dunbar. It was the first time someone other than my mother represented female leadership and authority and I was all eyes and ears, a little sponge of awareness soaking up everything she said, did and wore. Every day Miss Dunbar arrived to class in dresses of muted pattern, beige nylons and practical black heeled shoes that clip clopped her tiny frame around the classroom. And unlike my mother’s soft brown curls, her immaculate up-do hair stayed in place like a helmet, and her ivory complexion spoke of a different kind of summer from which my family had just returned, all of us sun bronzed and freckled from scrambling around King Edward Bay. Miss Dunbar was other-worldly.
For the most part Mom’s uniform was her “Mom Jeans”. She wore dresses only when she and Dad were going out for the evening and then oh-boy could she turn it on with sheer black stockings, sparkly drop earrings and sometimes even a mink stole. With a hint of Chanel Number 5, Mom would kiss me goodnight. She was the most marvellous thing in the world.
I thrived in the rules and structure that was Miss Dunbar’s kingdom. During those early years I was the kid who flourished in the “colour inside the lines” regime – so much so that when Jimmy who sat behind me (I may have had a crush on him) tapped my shoulder and whispered a request for me to colour his policeman, I obliged happily. More lines to colour within. Hurray. I can do that. He passed his sheet of paper up to me and I quietly filled in the blues and blacks of the uniform and passed it back.
There was Show and Tell where we were allowed to bring in something precious and stand at the front of the class and explain why it was dear to us. What I truly wanted to Show and Tell was our old, smelly and beloved dog Fanny. She was precious to me. But apparently this wasn’t an option so I brought in a stuffed dog that I think I was supposed to care about. It had a belly that zipped open – allegedly a place to stuff my pyjamas and leave on my pillow. I couldn’t be bothered to use it that way but I thought the zippered belly was cool.
A large picture was propped up on the classroom windowsill illustrating a white-robed Jesus surrounded by baby animals. A perfect blue sky and sun rays illuminated the entire scene, and lambs gazed up at Jesus while he looked down to them blissfully. Every day we sang “Jesus loves me this I know, for the bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong, they are weak but he is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me…” etc etc. I loved singing so I belted out the words not knowing what I was singing about other than thinking no one had ever told me I was weak, but regardless it was keen that somebody I didn’t know loved me.
Every day we recited the Lord’s prayer “Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed would be thy name…”etc. I didn’t get this either. I wondered why my name was Hallowed, and why I had to have “daily bread”. I didn’t know what sins were, and evil was never talked about in our home. My parents were Unitarian Universalists and talked to my siblings and me about right and wrong, we were told to “do unto others as you would have others do unto you” and “waste not want not.” That was our brand of religion.
I barreled along with Miss Dunbar’s prayers and songs because she said to – but also because it felt good and powerful somehow to say the words as an entire classroom, our little voices ringing out with a brand of strength I hadn’t experienced before. To my 6 year old mind, it was exhilarating to all be on the same page thinking and saying the same thing all while our leader smiled with our group effort.
I remember my best friend Darlene who every single day brought the very same sandwich of bologna and mustard on the whitest bread I had ever seen, the bread matching the colour of her legs. Our classroom desks were set up in rows, each row named after a vegetable. When a project was marked, each row would stand in line and wait for Miss Dunbar to mark our masterpiece. I remember Darlene standing in line with the rest of her Radish row, wiggling and writhing, vigorously reaching up her hand, desperate to get Miss Dunbar’s attention. It was clear to everyone that she needed to be excused to go to the washroom. Everyone except Miss Dunbar who was otherwise focused with the task of marking our papers. Those were the days when you spoke only when spoken to, and requests and questions were only answered by raising your hand. When Darlene finally made it to the front of the line the teacher brusquely gave her permission – but it was too late and the worst thing in the world happened right there in front of the entire class.
I died a little bit that day for my friend. And as the janitor arrived with his mop and sawdust, my rules and structure world was a little upturned. I was left thinking that at times – rules be damned – speaking up for oneself was worth the risk.
