I spent the first four years of my life wishing I were five. Why five? It seemed prestigious to me for some reason. Five years old were treated with respect. At least by three and four year olds. But with being five came responsibilities. It would soon be time to start school. I had no interest in going to school at all. But there seemed to be no way out.
One fall day in Atlanta, a long time ago now, my mother told me that I would be going to school in the morning. I had a little dress to wear, which was OK, but I was very disturbed about the fact that suddenly she insisted that my name was Helene. I must remember this fact at all costs. I thought that was a lot and I didn't think I would remember. And that was not my name. I had never heard of this person. She also told me I rode on Bus 88. Remember that. I suppose she thought that was a simple matter, but I couldn't count and didn't know what 88 was. How would I know Bus 88 from any other bus even if I should remember it was 88? This was all very alarming. Besides that, I actually didn't know the name of a single person in my family, either immediate family, or extended. I only knew nicknames and Mama and Daddy. I was told my our last name, but I didn't know what that meant either. I didn't know where I lived and would probably ride right by my home if I were on Bus 88. I would never remember all this information. I lay awake thinking that this was my last night at home. I would never make it back. I wouldn't be able to tell anyone who I was, or who anyone I knew was, where I lived, what bus I rode. I would probably become abandoned. I thought that another family might take me in. What would they be like? I thought they would be nice.
What did people do at this place anyway? No thank you. It sounded far too dangerous.
The moment arrived for me to be torn away forever from all that I held dear and I sadly boarded the bus to my doom. Before long I found myself in a classroom filled with children my age. This interested me and I chatted. I was busy chattering when Mrs. Wilson came in. OK. She approached me instantly, and lifted me from my seat by my hair, shook me as hard as she could, and flung me. What was that about? I wondered. I can't say I was terribly surprised.
There was Mrs. Wilson, and also Mrs. Hill. It was like good cop, bad cop. Mrs. Wilson was a very old, very skinny, severe woman who was always in a bad mood. Mrs. Hill was much more laid back, in her forties probably, and chubby.
We were told on this day that there was a special bathroom for us in the back of the room. If we wanted to go there, we were to raise our hands, and signal "one" or "two." Hmm. One or two? Mrs. Hill explained what one and two were, but I missed it. More information overload. I thought surely it would be repeated, but to this day I've never figured it out.
I somehow made it home with the kindness of strangers. And so I lived happily ever after.
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