RRRRIIIINNNNGGGG
The first school bell sliced through the chatter and thrill of the small yard on Amalia Street. Twenty pairs of black and white leather oxfords scurried past the sun-scarred swings and canopied lunch tables.
"Line up now. Everybody line up," a friendly-faced woman with blonde hair called out to the group.
Tiny bodies topped with French braids, pony tails, crew cuts, and parts perfectly combed by Mama for the first day of first grade in 1985. In the classroom we sat at our own desk in alphabetical order of our last names - Andrade, Delgado, Del Hoyo, Diaz.....
There were no desks back in kindergarten. Us kids sat on the carpeted floor most of the time. Here, I felt like a grown-up professional. I couldn't wait to get my hands on some paper and start writing something.
The walls were covered with bright posters, charts, letters and numbers. In the front left corner of the room, facing us as we worked at our miniature desks, was a statue of the Virgin Mary and an open children's bible on a reading stand. On the right wall was a handmade chart with each of our names in block letters and a pocket made of construction paper under each name. The key above explained:
Yellow = 1st warning
Red = 2nd warning
Black = Final warning
Depending on the crime, Ms. Cortez would stick a bookmark-size slip of yellow, red or (Yikes!) black paper under our name. Surely, she spotted the bad boy from the get go with his mop of black hair and a toothy grin that screamed, "I'm trouble." He got a black slip on day one and it never left.
RRRRIIIINNNNGGGG
Third grade marked our promotion from the Small Yard to the Big Yard. No sandbox or swings on the south side of the building. The fenced-in land of kickball, basketball, handball and the occasional game of Chinese jump-rope was selflessly guarded by the noble Spartan painted on the wall. Here, Third, Fourth, and Fifth graders were forced to intermingle during precious minutes of freedom.
A small-scale war on a cement battlefield every weekday. Teachers on duty risked their lives against torpedo balls- yellow, orange, and burgundy- coming from every angle, clusters of children skipping, running, tumbling, leaping in a medley of activity spread out over half a block. Then, just as the energy reached its peak, (just when an adult's patience was sure to run out), the high-pitched squeals could get no louder and bodily injury was milliseconds away -
RRRRIIIINNNNGGGG
Day one of the Fifth grade was a big deal for two reasons. First, our classroom was now on the second floor, along with the Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth graders. No fraternization with the kiddies down below. We were all about the penthouse level, with a flight of stairs outside that led directly to the second floor. Even our trips to the bathroom could result in big-kid interactions. Oh! And a sanitary napkin machine! Had no idea what was in there when I was ten. Gumballs? Packets of sugar? It didn't matter.
The second cause for excitement (and just a pinch of pre-teen arrogance) in the Fifth grade was the long-awaited skirt. We tossed aside our one-piece jumpers and with them our adolescence. If any one of us had understood the significance of burning bras we would have torched the jumpers. And don't let yourself be seen with a skirt past your knee. Total square. All you had to do was roll it from the waist and BOOM. You're two inches cooler. Rumor was a nun would make you get on your knees and if your skirt didn't touch the ground, you were in trouble. Nobody I knew had that happen to them. Man, we were Fifth graders! The elders of the Big Yard. Who's gonna give us static?
BONG...BONG...BONG....
The church bell at St. Alphonsus rang through the streets, from Beverly to Whittier Boulevard, announcing the start of mass and the Eighth graders eagerly anticipated commencement ceremony. Some of us had been there since that first day of First grade. Others came along later. But, once you were in, you belonged to the class and every moment from then on was a shared experience with the same two dozen little brothers and sisters in faith. Through potty accidents, bloody noses, and puberty. With good teachers, bad teachers, and nuns who pinched because they cared. Out of the scandals that rocked the playgrounds - She said she's not my friend anymore! Did you hear they kissed behind the stage? Alongside the burgeoning rebels, jocks, honor roll geeks, divas, and wallflowers. We were in it together.
"Line up now. Everybody line up," Ms. Kirby directed.
Girls and boys paired up by height, in a slow choreographed procession of royal and sky blue caps and gowns, like a soft ocean wave flowing down the middle aisle toward the altar. Toward their futures.
The first school bell sliced through the chatter and thrill of the small yard on Amalia Street. Twenty pairs of black and white leather oxfords scurried past the sun-scarred swings and canopied lunch tables. "Line up now. Everybody line up," a friendly-faced woman with blonde hair called out to the group.
Tiny bodies topped with French braids, pony tails, crew cuts, and parts perfectly combed by Mama for the first day of first grade in 1985. In the classroom we sat at our own desk in alphabetical order of our last names - Andrade, Delgado, Del Hoyo, Diaz.....
There were no desks back in kindergarten. Us kids sat on the carpeted floor most of the time. Here, I felt like a grown-up professional. I couldn't wait to get my hands on some paper and start writing something.
The walls were covered with bright posters, charts, letters and numbers. In the front left corner of the room, facing us as we worked at our miniature desks, was a statue of the Virgin Mary and an open children's bible on a reading stand. On the right wall was a handmade chart with each of our names in block letters and a pocket made of construction paper under each name. The key above explained:
Yellow = 1st warning
Red = 2nd warning
Black = Final warning
Depending on the crime, Ms. Cortez would stick a bookmark-size slip of yellow, red or (Yikes!) black paper under our name. Surely, she spotted the bad boy from the get go with his mop of black hair and a toothy grin that screamed, "I'm trouble." He got a black slip on day one and it never left.
RRRRIIIINNNNGGGG
Third grade marked our promotion from the Small Yard to the Big Yard. No sandbox or swings on the south side of the building. The fenced-in land of kickball, basketball, handball and the occasional game of Chinese jump-rope was selflessly guarded by the noble Spartan painted on the wall. Here, Third, Fourth, and Fifth graders were forced to intermingle during precious minutes of freedom.
A small-scale war on a cement battlefield every weekday. Teachers on duty risked their lives against torpedo balls- yellow, orange, and burgundy- coming from every angle, clusters of children skipping, running, tumbling, leaping in a medley of activity spread out over half a block. Then, just as the energy reached its peak, (just when an adult's patience was sure to run out), the high-pitched squeals could get no louder and bodily injury was milliseconds away -
RRRRIIIINNNNGGGG
Day one of the Fifth grade was a big deal for two reasons. First, our classroom was now on the second floor, along with the Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth graders. No fraternization with the kiddies down below. We were all about the penthouse level, with a flight of stairs outside that led directly to the second floor. Even our trips to the bathroom could result in big-kid interactions. Oh! And a sanitary napkin machine! Had no idea what was in there when I was ten. Gumballs? Packets of sugar? It didn't matter.
The second cause for excitement (and just a pinch of pre-teen arrogance) in the Fifth grade was the long-awaited skirt. We tossed aside our one-piece jumpers and with them our adolescence. If any one of us had understood the significance of burning bras we would have torched the jumpers. And don't let yourself be seen with a skirt past your knee. Total square. All you had to do was roll it from the waist and BOOM. You're two inches cooler. Rumor was a nun would make you get on your knees and if your skirt didn't touch the ground, you were in trouble. Nobody I knew had that happen to them. Man, we were Fifth graders! The elders of the Big Yard. Who's gonna give us static?
BONG...BONG...BONG....
The church bell at St. Alphonsus rang through the streets, from Beverly to Whittier Boulevard, announcing the start of mass and the Eighth graders eagerly anticipated commencement ceremony. Some of us had been there since that first day of First grade. Others came along later. But, once you were in, you belonged to the class and every moment from then on was a shared experience with the same two dozen little brothers and sisters in faith. Through potty accidents, bloody noses, and puberty. With good teachers, bad teachers, and nuns who pinched because they cared. Out of the scandals that rocked the playgrounds - She said she's not my friend anymore! Did you hear they kissed behind the stage? Alongside the burgeoning rebels, jocks, honor roll geeks, divas, and wallflowers. We were in it together.
"Line up now. Everybody line up," Ms. Kirby directed.
Girls and boys paired up by height, in a slow choreographed procession of royal and sky blue caps and gowns, like a soft ocean wave flowing down the middle aisle toward the altar. Toward their futures.
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