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Memoir (Pre-K)

My first run-in with the law: pre-Kindergarten. Not the "law," but the teacher. I was talking when I was not meant to. I was sent to the "balance beam," which was like the "time-out corner." The other culprit joined me.

What's especially galling: I'm certain I wasn't the one doing the yapping. I'm certain it was slow-witted Jonathan, and I felt I had to engage him; I had to be nice. I should have stepped on his toes and hissed, "Listen, motherfucker: You'll get us in trouble." But: no. 

Otherwise, pre-K was not a challenging year. Mainly, I remember attaching popsicle sticks to a photo of myself. The sticks formed a kind of Depression-era picture frame, and then you'd smear shit around the perimeter. Glitter glue. Cotton balls. Finger paint. My teacher was a nervous, bird-like woman; her sorrow was written on her face. It was a small town, so, if you were the weirdo child I was, you'd quickly apprehend that your teacher's daughter had a life-threatening eating disorder, and her cancer-addled husband continuously--continuously!--found himself charged with DWI. This lady had problems. Now and then, she needed to send some undeserving kid to the balance beam. She was a friend of my mother's, and once she became anxious and over-zealous in her car; she kept honking and honking at us. My mother--not seeing the other driver--asked, "What is that person's problem?" and began waving her middle finger in the air. Then: mystery solved. Hilarity ensued.

Anyway, you can see the mess I was in. Chatty Kathy on one side; my nail-biting, unthinking teacher on the other. I guess, if I could revisit my early childhood years, I would opt to wear a kind of Frances McDormand mask on all occasions. I would be like Taylor Swift: "smarter and harder in the nick of time." If I had put Jonathan in his place, early on, he maybe would not have fucked with me down the road. One trick I've learned at work, to deter needy people I don't want to talk to, is to feign preoccupation. You can learn this on WikiHow. If a colleague approaches, and you'd rather not dive in, you just lower your eyes to your keyboard and type, type away. Type furiously. Do not look up. "What was that? I'll see what I can do." Stunned by your seriousness of purpose, the vagabond will wander away. It's astonishing how well this works, morning after morning after morning.

It took me only thirty-five years to learn the trick. And again I find myself thinking of Ms. Swift. "Life!" she has said. "It's just a classroom."

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