AUTUMN WAS PRETTY THAT YEAR and Halloween was fast approaching. The air was filled with the smell of leaves burning in trash can fires. The new flannel shirt and thick corduroy pants that my mother had bought me for the start of school felt soft and warm. This was the first day that it had been cool enough to wear them. Freda and I ambled our way to school. The old white bulldog watched us walk past the candy store and lumber yard without raising his head off of his paws. When I walked into my classroom, before the bell, the other kids in the class were already busy making Halloween preparations. I sat down at one of the tables and started drawing then cutting out construction paper leaves, witches and pumpkins just like the rest of them. They were having too much fun to notice me and move away. I felt like I belonged for a couple of seconds. We were told to carry our chairs to the other end of the room and arrange them in a semi-circle. Miss what's her name hadplaced a small table in the front of the room upon which she sat a large pumpkin. I had to go to the bathroom. The teacher talked forever about how to use a knife safely, then she cut out the top of the pumpkin's head and slowly scooped out the seeds, one little teaspoon at a time, and put them on a piece of newspaper. I knew that I would have to break my promise to myself to wait until lunch time to go to the bathroom. I held off for as long as I could, and then raised my hand with one finger extended to let the teacher and the whole world know that I had to pee. I held my hand up politely for several minutes. I did not wave it around or say "Oooooooo" as the other kids did when they demanded to be called on. I just held my hand straight up in the air. I pretended to myself that I did not have to go as badly as I did, but the pressure in my groin was growing. I squeezed until I shook. I put my hand down and crossed my legs. It didn't help. I wriggled in my seat and tried to think about other things like the candy store, the old white bulldog, and the horse barn and lumberyard across the street. It didn't help. I rocked back and forth. It helped for a second. The wooden chair got harder. The urgency was ferocious. I raised my hand once again. The teacher looked in my general direction then turned her head away and kept talking about pumpkins and Halloween. I wondered if I could make it to the bathroom in time even if she gave me the go ahead. I waved my hand frantically in the air one more time and rocked back and forth. The sound "oooooo, ooooooooo" came out of my mouth involuntarily. Little drops of pee started to leak out, but I held back the flood with all my might. My parents had taught me to always obey teachers, so going to the bathroom without permission never crossed my mind. I grabbed my crotch with both hands and started to cry. Miss what's her name looked at the point between my eyes and said, "You put your hand down this instant and wait until this demonstration is over!" There was nothing left to do. I slid back in my seat, relaxed and let go. I felt warmth slowly spreading from my crotch down to my knees and the feeling was exquisite. Nothing else in the world mattered. A muted awareness of wetness and embarrassment dribbled into my consciousness with the last few drops. My heavy corduroy pants stuck to my legs. I was the island in a perfect circle of pee that had sprung up on the tile classroom floor. I shuddered from the cold wetness of my pants and the anticipation of cruel laugher from the kids in the class. Even the freshly carved face of the pumpkin seemed to make fun of me. But there was no laughter. Not a sound. The other kids picked up their chairs -- as if responding to a dog whistle -- walked around the puddle and returned to the three rectangular tables at the other end of the room. The teacher walked around my yellow lake and me without saying a word, and proceeded with the next activity of the day. And it wasn't even lunchtime. MY WALK HOME WITH FREDA WAS COLD AND QUIET. When I got to the door I fished out my house key from around my neck and underneath my shirt, and fumbled with the lock. When I finally got the door open, my mother was standing on the other side. I couldn't look at her. She, of course, noticed my soaking wet pants and told me to go to the bathroom to take them off. My thighs were ice cold, stinging and wet with little bumps from sitting in wet pants for the better part of a day. No. I was not allowed to go home after the incident even though I just lived a 15-minute walk away and my mother was at home. My mother asked what had happened and I told the horrible story. A look came over her face that I had not seen before. It was the first time that I remember being afraid of her. She told me that she was going to school with me the next day to have a talk with my teacher. At exactly 6:05 p.m. I heard my father's key being pushed into the lock just like every weekday at that time. I heard each ridge of the key being inserted into the cold steel, and then the door flung open and he was standing there. My mother told my father what had happened and I couldn' tell if he was mad at the teacher or me for being stupid enough to sit there and pee in my pants. My complaints about school were usually cast aside with stories about how my father walked many miles to school barefoot on gravel roads only to be met by green switch-wielding teachers or principals when he got there. And despite all that, he was an "A" student. There was no such response this day. My father looked sadder than I had ever seen him. His head and shoulders drooped. My mother walked to school with Freda and me the next morning. She was normally a very slow walker, but she was hard to keep up with this morning. She asked where my classroom was. I pointed at the door and my mother disappeared inside. I rushed to catch up to her. She pushed aside the facade of cordiality and got right down to business. "When my son lets you know that he has to go to the bathroom, you let him go to the bathroom." Miss what's her name stared at a spot on table in front of her as if meeting my mother's gaze would have permanently turned her to stone. I went to the bathroom several times a day after that whether I had to go or not. And I always had to go when it was time to sing and dance to "Bend Down, Turn Around, Pick a Bale o' Cotton." I just raised my hand and left the room without permission and Miss what's her name never said a word. I was done asking "may I?" Piss on her and I would have if she had stood in my way. Oh Lordy, it was good to have some control. (End) |
| Thinking back on kindergarten: The memory still burns by Lang Kenneth Haynes Part 2 of 2 |
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