The day I spilled my milk in kindergarten

Kindergarten was a catch-as-catch-can affair in mid 20th century Atlanta.  It had not become part of the public school offerings at that point, but there were many options, most of them offered by churches as a way to glean some income from their unused space during the week.  I’m told that I transitioned into kindergarten a bit reluctantly, but by the third day I was happy about the transition and taking part fully.

My kindergarten class was arranged in rows designated by birds.  It appeared to be a meritocracy of some sort since I got the vague impression that certain kids were better at certain things, and that was why they were seated in the bluebird row.  I would not be surprised to find that the row assignments were made on an altogether different basis, however, Atlanta, being as it was, rather a plutocratic, oligarchic sort of place.  I don’t remember being bothered by the situation at all, though, and if I was ambitious to become a bluebird, it can’t have been much of a passion for me.  I labored in mediocrity in the robin or cardinal row and was fine with it.  I saw little difference among the birds myself, even after the indoctrination we received on the relative merits of the species chosen to stratify us.

One task early in the year was to select a picture to designate our cubbies.  I looked through issues of Life magazine, with its great photographs, lying around our living room until I found a picture of an ocean liner.  The picture had been taken from the air, and it showed the huge ship steaming through rather rough seas.  This picture adorned the back of my cubby for the whole year, and I can see it still.

In keeping with what I now know to be the teachers’ concerted efforts to control us through shame, they had a policy whereby the child who spilled his milk at lunchtime would wear a “baby bonnet” until lunch had ended.  This was nothing more than a piece of pink crepe paper with a length of pink ribbon to tie under the offending child’s irresponsible and perhaps quivering chin.

My day came, of course.  I had hoped it would not, but on another level, not prescient but fatalistic with a child’s fatalism, I knew full well it would.  What are the chances that a child could go 180 days without ever spilling any milk?  So, with the equanimity of the fatalist when misfortune strikes, I walked from my tiny seat at my tiny table straight over to the big teachers’ table with its bigger teachers’ chairs and reported.  I remember it quite clearly.  I looked the lead teacher right in the eye and spoke in a calm, serious, confident voice, saying, “I just spilled my milk, but I am not going to wear the baby bonnet.”

It was all the woman could do not to laugh directly in my face.  She glanced around at the other teachers, who all wore the same stiff-lipped, delighted expression she did, and said, “All right.  I suppose that will be all right, but you will have to go into the other room until lunch is over.”  I acknowledged my acceptance of her terms, adding by way of clarification that I would do anything else she chose for me, but I would not wear the baby bonnet.

This is something people have trouble understanding about me:  I rarely am very impressed at all with their strictures, punishments, and other attempts to threaten or control me.  I am not wild; I do not look for trouble; but my attitude with authority tends to be, “If you’re going to do something, go ahead, but if you’re just going to talk about it, well, let’s save each other some time.”  What they don’t know (and why should they?) is how I was raised and by whom.  Growing up at my house had several obvious disadvantages, but it did convey a certain degree of endurance, resilience, and the ability to maintain equanimity under duress.

That was something one did not learn on the bluebird row.

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