It was a big hallway with cold marble floors and vast empty walls. The echoes lingered endlessly throughout the halls and people, big and tall, shuffled along with big packs attached to their backs. Doors were opened and people would disappear into them and wouldn’t return to the hallways until a good four to six hours later. God only knows what was happening to these poor kids while swallowed up whole, backpack and all. It was September 1977 and it was my first day of school. It was Kindergarten.

I was five years old with dark pig tails swinging on both sides of my head. I remember my parents rushing me along, looking for the door that was meant for me. What were they thinking bringing me to such a place?. It was a vast sea of kids and parents rushing around and then it happened. My door. There it was, open, just waiting for me to step over the threshold. No, I thought, I wouldn’t do it. But I felt my hands being pulled into the room by my mom. Could she really be serious about leaving me here? What did I do to deserve abandonment? The worst was yet to come.

As I was ushered into the room I noticed the windows were slightly open and I could smell the blue black rush of the traffic from outside. I almost gave thought to a swift get away as the cool September breeze kissed me from the windows. The carpet was olive green, the walls were smokey black with chalk marks on them and there he stood. A giant with a big black mustache and a smile bigger than my big sister’s banana clip. (Oh my sister, I wished she were with me then. But she was battling her own problems in first grade.) Of all teachers, I got the one man! A male kindergarten teacher for crying out loud.

And that’s exactly what I did. I started to scream as loud as I could. I grabbed the leg of my closest parent and held on for dear life. Now the tears came and so did the chain reaction. Wails started from every corner of the room. Sobbing could be heard several doors down. I didn’t care. It was all about me being left behind by my parents with this man teacher who had hair growing from his upper lip.

My father lifted me up in order to get better control of the situation. I wasn’t having it. Once he held me in his arms I would have to be surgically removed. I thought, “here’s my chance, now they’ll never be able to peel me off.” My face was as plump and red as a tomato with tears streaming down. From my tucked down head hiding in my father’s neck I could sense a roar of thunder about to happen. I had recruited about four other helpless souls in my plight to escape. The sounds of screams beckoned to even more adults as they entered frantically. It was a chaotic frenzy.

I believe about 25 minutes had passed before they were able to persuade me to just look at the man teacher. Lifting my head from the secure warmth of my father’s neck was a challenge. At this point most of the commotion was brought to a minimum. They were desperately trying to convince me of my safety. There was one option I was willing to entertain; if I had no choice in being left there, then I wanted security, and that was my sister.

Right before my eyes, movers came in the classroom and moved a desk out the door. My parents followed the desk down the hallway and I, still in my father’s arms, watched. We entered through another opened door and who did I see sitting at the front of the room, my big sister!

They had brought my kindergarten desk into the first grade classroom, situated it next to my sister’s desk and placed me in the chair next to her. Do I remember her reaction? No. Do I remember mine? Absolutely. It was shear relief. If I was going down this way, I wasn’t going to be alone. I can honestly say that I do not remember the rest of the day or even returning to my parents. What I do remember was the secure feeling I got from being next to my sister.

Like all children I successfully completed kindergarten but it was not without its drama. As for my sister, well she still bails me out now and again but it’s at a pretty even level now.

This September, as I walk my middle son down the hallways to his first day of kindergarten, I will undoubtedly remember my trauma, be sensitive to his feelings and hope that my older son is in a classroom near by!