As Far Back as I can Remember

There are only a few things that I have clear memory of from the Catholic kindergarden that I attended when I was four. The first was an introduction to and subsequent love for Ghostbusters action figures after they were introduced to me by a boy who's name I can't remember. The second was the sense of shear terror that set in at the sight of what seemed like at the time, the world's largest and saddest looking Jesus nailed to the world's largest cross. Then there was the feeling of absolute disgust and anxiety that set in after finding a bunch of soggy communion wafers in the drinking fountain. (To this day, the idea of taking communion from a priest makes me dry heave. By extension, I will never drink grape juice or drink from a fountain as the association is still too strong). The final thing that I can remember about kindergarden was a boy named Rodney.

You must forgive the fact that the memory of my first interaction with a boy that was not a member of my family is a little bit blurry, but mainly this story is important to tell because it sets the stage perfectly for how my relationships with men would be going forward.

I can recall being transplanted into my kindergarden class a few months into the regular school year. My mother--one of the most incredible people I know--decided that it was time that I go to school. Even if it was a year earlier than most children are scheduled start. And so, as with most other things she set her mind to, she made it happen. The regular school system rejected me but quickly she discovered a loop hole in the system which allowed for children attending private schools to start their educations earlier than others. What this says about the education system, I can only speculate. And so with my new lunchbox in hand and my matronly uniform, and awesome LA Gear high tops, I arrived at my first day of school to the excited welcome of a classroom full of five year olds who were all keen to make the new addition feel welcome.

I certainly can't tell you what any of us spoke about. I'm sure it was earth shattering stuff though. What I can tell you is that pretty quickly into my education, I was faced with the uncomfortable problem of having a boy like me and that I didn't like back. (In subsequent stories, you will see that this trend reverses very quickly). What made the situation infinitely worse and infinitely more adorable was that this boy, Rodney, would show his feelings to me not with words, but instead with art. Every morning when we all arrived at school, Rodney would present me a hand drawn picture of hearts and rainbows in various configurations. Sometimes the hearts would float on clouds, but most of the time they just floated around the rainbows in a haphazard manner.

Here are some other things that I recall about Rodney's tokens of affection: They were always drawn on pieces of cardboard found in pantyhose packages--which I always thought was strange. How much used pantyhose was being generated in his house? He would always present them to me in front of his mother, his aunt and his grandmother who always dropped him off at school together. They would laugh adoringly at the bold gesture of their young son/nephew/grandson while I would accept the gift, feeling slightly confused and embarrassed. He would always follow up on my level of happiness with the gift later in the day to which I would always lie and say that I was extremely happy and that his drawings were the greatest thing ever. I would then throw them in the garbage when I got home, never discussing my new suitor with my family.

The hearts and rainbows continued to pour in for months, or maybe it was weeks, I can't say for certain. What I do remember very clearly though was the day I had to tell Rodney that I was no longer interested in receiving his pantyhose cardboard drawings. It wasn't going to work out between us, we were just going in different directions. It's not you, it's me. He was heartbroken, I'm sure of it. In fact, he was so upset by my vicious words that, after crying a little, he promptly turned his attention to my best friend at the time. He told her I was horrible and they went off to play together.

The next morning, Rodney was delivered by the usual gaggle of women who were watching what was about to happen next with the utmost interest.

As I was standing outside, Rodney walked directly past me and straight to my friend. He smiled at her, and pulled from his bag a piece of cardboard who's origins I can only assume came from a package of pantyhose, and presented to her a hand drawn picture of hearts, rainbows, a sun, some clouds. The picture was much larger than the ones I had become accustomed to receiving over the months, or was it weeks? Very quickly though it would become apparent why her hearts and rainbows were so much bigger than the ones he usually drew for me. It was because when he presented me with my consolation prize--a piece of cardboard from a package of pantyhose with a drawing of a tiny, broken heart--that I would understand right then and there, what a mistake I had made. I had broken his heart by being honest with him and now I was to suffer the humiliation of being downgraded to spite art. The trifecta of estrogen, Rodney's mother/aunt/grandmother had of course seen this transaction and the deflated look on my face and started to laugh. They laughed and laughed and then they gave him the thumb's up as I walked into the classroom holding the picture of the tiny, broken heart on the vast white cardboard canvas.

To this day, I don't know why they were going through so many pairs of pantyhose.