First Grade

Personal Memoir

Debbie, age six, during her first grade year, Spring 1975, standing by the maple tree in the yard at the Methodist parsonage, Shrewsbury, Massachusetts

Miss Pappas arranged the small desks into neat rows and columns. Her standard-issue institutionalized wooden desk sat near the front where she kept a watchful eye on her students. A pristine green chalkboard covered the front wall of the classroom. Posters hung on two of the remaining walls, highlighting letters, numbers, and high frequency words. The messy artwork that only a parent would love came later. Low bookshelves containing picture books, art supplies, and toys lined the lower half of the room’s perimeter along with cubbies large enough to hold umbrellas, winter coats and boots. Natural light streamed through the bank of windows on the fourth wall and provided a view of the green playing fields behind the school.

I found my desk in the back row, a typical practice for children whose last names landed at the end of the alphabet. As time progressed, I learned to look for my desk in the back row first, when each new school year started. Miss Pappas moved the desks around later, as she discovered the classroom personalities. She separated the chatty ones. Needy and struggling students migrated towards the front. Disruptive children found themselves on the edges, as far away from the other students as possible. I sat in the back row for months, a quiet bookworm and early finisher, happy to pull out a book whenever my work was done. I remember little from that school year except three things—glasses, dance lessons, ice cream—and of course, my parents’ divorce.

“Debbie is having difficulty seeing the board. Perhaps she needs glasses?” Miss Pappas said when she contacted my parents.

My desk moved forward where I found myself in the front of the classroom for the first time. The writing on the board was no longer blurry. The optometrist diagnosed nearsightedness. I chose a pair of cheap brown plastic frames that matched my hazel eyes. My recent bouts with motion sickness decreased, but reading in a moving vehicle proved to be impossible.

After school, once a week, I took a combination ballet, tap, and baton twirling class in the multipurpose room. The patient instructors taught the basics to a large group of fidgety six year olds. We learned the five positions for arms and legs, then wobbled our way through pliés and detournés. Our shiny black patent-leather shoes, tied tight with satin ribbons, clicked against the floor, creating a deafening cacophony of sound, as we shifted back and forth between our toes and heels.

“Heel, ball, change!” said the teacher, her voice echoing across the room.

We stood a safe distance apart and held our steel batons aloft with their solid white rubber “safety” caps to avoid any accidents. Our wrists flicked and contorted, making the batons twirl and rotate. The tossing came later. At that point, I practiced outside, away from the China cabinet and the other fragile knick-knacks indoors.

When class finished, the other girls packed their belongings into their fancy vinyl ballet boxes. The rectangular cubes came with a single adjustable shoulder strap and contained just enough room to pack two pairs of shoes, a leotard, legwarmers, and tights. Illustrations of elegant ballerinas in puffy tutus—either lacing their slippers or turning perfect pirouettes—decorated the front of the boxes. I wanted one. Sooner or later, my parents acquired one for me, much to my delight.

My Papa began a tradition that year as our family disintegrated. Once a week, he picked me up from school and took me to Friendly’s for ice cream, just the two of us, without my mother or my younger brother, Jack. The drive down the hill from North Shore Elementary, on North Quinsigamond Avenue, to the White City Shopping Plaza took less than ten minutes. We parked the station wagon next to the restaurant, across from the movie theatre. The bell jingled as we opened the door. Sometimes we sat side by side at the front counter. If the counter was crowded, we found a table by the windows that looked out towards the turnpike. A large board behind the counter listed all the ice cream flavors. I already knew my choice—Butter Crunch or Peppermint Stick. A waitress took our orders, dressed in the chain’s classic uniform—blue and white polyester houndstooth, white ruffles at the neck and cuffs, a navy blue bow with matching trim, and a short apron with pockets large enough to hold her order pad. Afterwards, Papa and I talked about the day, school, or the upcoming week while we waited for our treat. My ice cream arrived in a stainless steel tulip shaped bowl with a long spoon—to dig out the bits and sprinkles trapped in the bottom of the stem. The metal bowl turned as cold as the ice cream as we savored a rare and fleeting moment of joy together. During the winter, the sun set early. We walked hand in hand back to the car, through snow or slush, under the glow of the parking lot lights, before heading home for dinner.

My mother filed for divorce on August 20^th, 1975, the summer after I finished first grade. Tension filled the house in the months beforehand. Most of the arguing took place away from Jack and me, but one day, shouting erupted from the basement. We crept down the creaky wooden stairs and listened to our parents’ disagreement. Near the bottom of the steps, I peeked around the corner to watch. Papa, a quiet man who never raised his voice to us, stood immobile while Mama raged, her anger spewing across the room. When her rage burned itself out, we fled upstairs to our rooms and feigned innocence. By the time August rolled around, Papa had moved out.