A short piece that might one day go into a book I hope to write about growing up in Chicago... Saddest Day at Transfiguration First grade. Home for lunch. Kitchen. Skinny. Still able to sit in little brothers high chair. Bozos Circus. Sudden interruption. Startling. What, no attempt at Bucket Number 4? Black and white. Words, words slowly delivered. Serious words, very serious. Something is very much wrong. Call upstairs, up hallway, to mommy and grandma. They both race down. But why race? Something about my voice. Now, all our eyes on small television. Wide open, do not even blink. Television stares back, as if it too, is in shock. A secret is contained there, somewhere, but where? What? Quick succession of gasps as if for air. Mommy and grandma, desperate to catch even one breathe. Sobbing now starts, as if on cue. NO uttered seemingly 100 times. When will they stop? Each NO grows louder. My ears soon to explode. Please stop I think, then, bravely mumble. More and more serious words by man in suit and tie. Sobbing now much deeper, as if from center of the earth. My mumbled, near silent plea, has no impact. None. Facial expressions on newsman. They scare me. Expressions never before seen on anyone. Now really scared. It is in such a state, I must walk back to school. Through yards and alley. Leaves left unkicked. Play ground first, we children slowly stroll it. No kid ventures towards another, as if in our own capsule. No words exchanged, the briefest glance, nonexistent. All eyes glued to grass or blacktop. As if the answers lie mysteriously somewhere on the ground. So keep searching, if only we all search hard enough. The usually squeaky swings, motionless, hauntingly silent. Merry-go-round too, goes too untouched, as if it has died. Back in First Grade classroom, shared with the Second Graders. Air is heavy. Contains only confusion, but silently so, just like swings. We sit at our wooden desks, in the strategically straightest rows. We are blank in every respect. Feet perfectly placed under desk. Our hands neatly clasped on top of desks. Our posture never so straight. All is so rigid, we appear as if statues of children, not real children. Every aspect of our classroom so unnatural, like a dream never to end. We are instructed to pray, but told in the softest voice imaginable. By a woman in black, veiled so tight, her forehead displays a red crease. Our neatly clasped hands, now change position, but remain pinned to desk. Our hands are opened, then shut, fingers glued, pointed slightly upward. We then gently cross our thumbs, to complete the look of prayer. But, pray for what? We all wonder, but no one dares ask. For remember, more like statues than real children. We pray despite our mounting uncertainties, endless uncertainties. Then, we are told to go home. What? Home? It is not yet 3 oclock! Go home before the buzzer even rings? Now, totally perplexed. We find this instruction to leave, walk back home, unnerving. Extremely unsettling, to travel through alleys while so unsettled. Our fear can now almost be tasted. Smelled. But, we quietly follow orders, and leave the room without a sound. Walk like soldiers, for no one dares to push or run or cut in line. Not today. So, we walk through our usual yards, while dogs bark wildly in the next yard. It is as if the dogs know too, that something very wrong has occurred. Their barking louder, more frantic, our fragile states again, come unglued. Just remember to close the gates, or, yelling will occur. We could not cope with that, especially today, not one more thing. Cross final street. Walk up concrete front porch stairs. Each step seeming to take a minute to reach the next. Now, finally, front door opens. We are safe inside. Now home. Which oddly, no longer feels like home at all. Or, safe. For we are changed.
Posted on: Sat, 04 Oct 2014 22:00:59 +0000
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