We Come Prepared to Kindergarten

The year was 2011. I was enjoying the awkward in-between period between my gaining of sentient thought and the inevitable beginning of my school years, a promise that loomed over these years like a dark shadow. I spent my days, though, carefree, and my memories are bathed in a golden light as if blessed by a greater being. Boy, did I have a good time. I made concoctions with ketchup, lime juice, and raw eggs with the craze of a tiny warlock who has discovered the ease of modern capitalism that allows him potion ingredients at a finger’s reach. I explored the little patch of grass behind our home, which seemed to me a great forest. I investigated the world’s most intriguing theories—at which stair would Mother’s vase break? How can regular old pots and pans be fashioned into the world’s finest drum set? Does toothpaste really erase anything, even finger paint off the walls? (It did not.) But as all good things must, this glorious time rolled to an end. Previously, I had had no use for knowing neither month nor hour, but it soon became impossible to ignore the impending month of September and the alarm clock that would dictate the rest of my life, shrieking at each new dawn to infuriate me from my slumber.

Soon my first day of kindergarten came. I’m sure it wasn’t as horrible as my memory makes it out to be, but all the pleasantness of that day has been pushed out of my mind as a result of the pencil incident. I was led into a very dark room, that I do remember, or maybe it only just seemed dark because it was the beginning of these grueling school years. In any case, it was dark enough that I was able to hide my fatal mistake, at least for a few minutes.

A very kind-looking lady, who I thought was my teacher but who I learned later was just learning how to teach (she was no less a student than I), passed me a paper the moment I walked in the door. I found an empty desk and sat. In my hands I held a diagnostic of sorts. The test began swimmingly. I conquered the test as if I were Lewis and Clarke in the great American West, slashing with my machete through the simple subtractions and sentences of the vast frontier. I worked at a feverish pace, scrawling rapidly across the page—until disaster struck.

The tip of my single pencil inexplicably broke. A chunk of lead tumbled out of my pencil and made a dash toward the edge of the table. I pounced! With the reflexes of a master martial artist, I chopped my hand towards the edge of the desk and pinched the graphite between my desk and the palm of my hand.

But now what to do? I was completely unsure, as I was not yet accustomed to the ways of kindergarten or misbehaving pencils. My golden adventures had not prepared me for such a complication. Yet, submitting to kindergarten’s toughest challenges was out of the question. If Bob the Builder, the Little Engine Who Could, or He-Man had taught me anything, it was that sheer determination could mend any difficult situation. I had to finish. In the eyes of my new teacher, my entire value as a human being was thus far summed up in this one exam, and if I failed at this simple task, I would condemn myself to an entire year of being shamed and shunned. (In hindsight, I’m both horrified and impressed at my younger self for being so determined to protect my pride—it was as if I were a 5’2'' gym rat with a Napoleonic complex.) I maneuvered the millimeter-long stub of graphite between my thumb and point finger and began to write. It was difficult. The sides were slippery and the lead got shorter and shorter with every stroke. But I was managing. It was going smoothly until my new teacher saw. The actual teacher, no longer the kind-looking student. She swooped in like a geriatric vulture, brandishing a #2.

“Chase,” she squawked. “We come prepared to kindergarten. Let’s not have this happen again.” I was mortified and frightened by this great vulture-lady who stared at me with unsmiling eyes. She meant business.

“Sorry,” I stammered. It was clear that I was outmatched by this all-seeing being.

The pencil incident affected me greatly in my beginning school years. While I eventually learned that teachers are not omnipresent gods of proper stationery habits to whom I must kowtow, my first classroom experience scared me straight. The value of preparation that I learned on that very first day of school has stuck with me since, fueled mostly by my recurring nightmare of Mrs. Barnes tracking me down like the Silver Terminator should I forget a highlighter, Post-It Note, or God forbid an eraser. And, of course, I carry two pencils with me wherever I go. Just in case.