Called in From the Playground

Whether by a bell or a whistle or a particular kind of shout, I don't recall, but it is certain that we all knew when recess was over. We girls who hung upside down on the monkey bars and played clapping games, who climbed and giggled, had a tradition. One last flip over the bar before we righted ourselves and dashed across the tremendous field of gravel towards the yawning door of the school.

On this morning, I misjudged the timing or the distance and, in my enthusiasm, smacked the bridge of my nose hard on the metal bar itself. Immediately blood started pouring out. My two friends, the only ones left in the line of little girls once waiting for their turn at the flip bar, clamored down to help me. With one supporting me at each side, we trekked slowly across the now-deserted, silent expanse.

I tipped my head back, trying to make the blood stop flowing (or perhaps to keep it from landing on my clothes).

"Oh, don't tip your head back," said one friend, in an all-knowing voice, "all the blood will go into your brain and you'll die."

I promptly tilted my head forward.

"Oh, no!" said the other friend, equally knowing. "Don't tip your head forward, or all the blood will go into your mouth, and you'll swallow it, and die."

My eyes widened at this predicament. Unsure what else to do. I held my head straight up, hand to my face, willing the bleeding to stop, while my two friends walked me across the interminable expanse of playground.

When we got back to our second-grade classroom, our tardiness needed no explanation. The substitute teacher we had that day bustled off to get me paper towels, handed them to me, and sat me down at my desk.

Honestly, I was disappointed. I'd felt a little proud of the vast amount of blood. I was hoping for some flourish or fanfare. The attention a wounded war hero deserved. Cluckings of worry, petting, the kind motherly, sympathetic response my regular teacher would have given me.

At the very least, I expected a pass to the nurse's office, which conveyed with it a sense of importance. I am Injured, such a pass announced. I Deserve Special Treatment.

Instead, I got a scratchy wad of uncompromising brown paper toweling that remained stained on my desk long after my nose stopped bleeding. I don't recall whether I was sent anywhere to wash myself up, but in my childish mind, however I was dealt with was an indignity hardly to be supported. THIS substitute had no proper idea of how to handle a crisis. She was NO REAL TEACHER, I concluded. I held her in my silent contempt for the rest of the day.


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Your turn. Tell me your most vivid memory of elementary school.

And then, do yourself a huge huge favor, and go check out my review of 32 Third Graders and One Class Bunny -- a book that will make you laugh, cry, nod, and relive your own school days, with the added twist of letting you know what your teachers were thinking too. It's really one of the very best books I've read in a long long time.