In honor of all those students, parents, and teachers back home I thought I would share an exerpt from an essay I wrote a year ago about my first day of school at Inchelium. The essay was in response to the question "Why did you choose to be a teacher?" I wrote about my trouble fitting in at Inchelium and how I went on to discover that standing and teaching at the front of the class was the only place I truly felt like I belonged....anyway, it's directed towards an audience of officials in Olympia who were in charge of grading my professional portfolio, so I won't bore you with the whole essay, but here's the part about my first day of school and why it is burned into my memory:
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A white girl born and raised on an Indian Reservation has very little chance of ever fitting in. Although not impossible, the odds of having a sense of belonging are rare. Basic outward appearances automatically create an obvious division among people that is extremely difficult ignore. In order to fit in, a girl must play her cards right. No, she must play them perfectly and a certain sort of luck must be involved as well. For instance, if a girl were born with dark, straight hair and deep-brown eyes, it would definitely help with the fitting-in process. If her natural behavior was similar to those around her, if she was to think and act and react like the rest, she might have an easier time being accepted by her classmates. Let’s say that, hypothetically speaking, if she were significantly gifted in the area of athletics, the people in her community might be willing to accept her for her ability to contribute to the local sports teams. With matching physical characteristics, similar mannerisms, and a supernatural athletic ability, a white girl just might possibly fit in. Unfortunately, for me, I struck-out in all three areas and have spent a large chunk of my life searching for a place where I truly belong.
If I ever stood a chance at fitting in at Inchelium (the tiny reservation town where I grew up) I blew it- big time. My one chance to fit in was shot to pieces the minute I stepped foot on the bus- headed to school for the first time, my first day of kindergarten.
Mom had spent extra time that morning combing my blonde hair and dividing it into pig tails. She talked gently to me as she finished my hair, tying each pigtail with a bright ribbon. She spent the rest of the morning trying to make sure that, in all my excitement for school, I had not forgotten to pack my box of Crayolas, my new PE shoes or my sack lunch. I’d heard so much about school from my older brother, Hunter, I anxiously awaited the time for him and me to go out the door and catch the bus. The time finally came. Mom walked us out the door, led us out onto the driveway, turned us to face the sun, and took a photo of Hunter and me- hand in hand, ready to start school.
The bus’ diesel engine grew loud as it rounded the far corner of our dirt road. A cloud of dust trailed behind it and, as it approached, I felt scared and excited at the same time. As it arrived at our stop, the bus lurched to a halt, the air brakes let out a hiss, and the bus driver opened the doors for us to come aboard. Hunter let me get on first. I climbed the three giant steps and waltzed down the tiny aisle to find a seat- a big brown seat for my brother and me to sit in.
The bus pulled away from our stop and rolled down the road, my azure-blue eyes grew wide as I began to look around. My world had instantly expanded. I couldn’t get enough of looking around at the interesting sights that surrounded me. There were so many sounds to listen to, my ears felt overwhelmed. My hands instantly wanted to touch everything- the windows, the rugged metal siding, the vinyl seats. I was awe-struck. I’d heard that school was great, but I had no idea that the ride to school would be this incredible. I know now, that it was at that exact point in time that I realized life was worth celebrating- and each moment in it, even the small ones, were worth celebrating too.
If I ever stood a chance at fitting in at Inchelium (the tiny reservation town where I grew up) I blew it- big time. My one chance to fit in was shot to pieces the minute I stepped foot on the bus- headed to school for the first time, my first day of kindergarten.
Mom had spent extra time that morning combing my blonde hair and dividing it into pig tails. She talked gently to me as she finished my hair, tying each pigtail with a bright ribbon. She spent the rest of the morning trying to make sure that, in all my excitement for school, I had not forgotten to pack my box of Crayolas, my new PE shoes or my sack lunch. I’d heard so much about school from my older brother, Hunter, I anxiously awaited the time for him and me to go out the door and catch the bus. The time finally came. Mom walked us out the door, led us out onto the driveway, turned us to face the sun, and took a photo of Hunter and me- hand in hand, ready to start school.
The bus’ diesel engine grew loud as it rounded the far corner of our dirt road. A cloud of dust trailed behind it and, as it approached, I felt scared and excited at the same time. As it arrived at our stop, the bus lurched to a halt, the air brakes let out a hiss, and the bus driver opened the doors for us to come aboard. Hunter let me get on first. I climbed the three giant steps and waltzed down the tiny aisle to find a seat- a big brown seat for my brother and me to sit in.
The bus pulled away from our stop and rolled down the road, my azure-blue eyes grew wide as I began to look around. My world had instantly expanded. I couldn’t get enough of looking around at the interesting sights that surrounded me. There were so many sounds to listen to, my ears felt overwhelmed. My hands instantly wanted to touch everything- the windows, the rugged metal siding, the vinyl seats. I was awe-struck. I’d heard that school was great, but I had no idea that the ride to school would be this incredible. I know now, that it was at that exact point in time that I realized life was worth celebrating- and each moment in it, even the small ones, were worth celebrating too.
I could hardly sit in my seat as we traveled from house to house, picking up more kids. I’d hardly noticed the rest of the students on the bus since I’d been preoccupied with the wonders of the ride. We had one more stop to make before making the trip down hill to the school parking lot. At this stop, a grumpy high school student stepped on the bus, shuffled to her seat, threw her bag down, and sat with an obvious frown on her face. Her body language communicated a very clear message that she was not at all pleased with the fact that school had started again.
After making the remarkable discovery that the school bus offered innumerable wonders to be cherished, I could not figure out why this girl looked do displeased. Didn’t everyone else see the wonders I did? Didn’t this girl see life, full of new opportunities, was offering her an opportunity to look around and be amazed?
It was at that moment that I, with eyes wide, looked at her, trying to interpret the expression on her face, hoping she would find enjoyment in the bus ride like I did. I gazed curiously and she returned the gaze. It took me a split-second to realize that the look she gave me was not friendly but rather one of bitterness and disgust. Her eyes narrowed and her lips let out a low growl as she spoke.
“Stare hard, retard.”
I don’t remember much about the rest of that day.
After making the remarkable discovery that the school bus offered innumerable wonders to be cherished, I could not figure out why this girl looked do displeased. Didn’t everyone else see the wonders I did? Didn’t this girl see life, full of new opportunities, was offering her an opportunity to look around and be amazed?
It was at that moment that I, with eyes wide, looked at her, trying to interpret the expression on her face, hoping she would find enjoyment in the bus ride like I did. I gazed curiously and she returned the gaze. It took me a split-second to realize that the look she gave me was not friendly but rather one of bitterness and disgust. Her eyes narrowed and her lips let out a low growl as she spoke.
“Stare hard, retard.”
I don’t remember much about the rest of that day.
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Side note: Most people in Inchelium are a lot friendlier than this girl ever was. Her cutting words, however, left a scar that has remained ever since- reminding me that the tongue is a dangerous weapon. This fact alone is one of the most important things I've learned. If we look at it that way, this girl played taught me my very first lesson on my first day of kindergarten, and for that I am grateful. Maybe I'll send her a postcard.
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