First Day

By Anthony Rowe

Sunlight streams through the windowpanes, warming the kindergarten classroom. Primary colors adorn all areas of the room, welcoming students into their new classroom. Pillows and beanbags are arranged in one corner while blocks are stacked neatly in another. Picture books face outward on the bookshelves with friendly animal faces ready to teach important life lessons.

At the center of the room is a circular rug. Numbers have been woven into the outer edge of the rug, and each student is seated on his or her designated number. A faded wooden rocking chair sits perfectly still at the edge of the rug, holding Miss Stephanie Hartwell as she reads her favorite childhood picture book to her first class on the first day of her teaching career.

The principal walks quietly through the open door and listens for a moment, smiling down at the sense of order on display in front of him. When Miss Hartwell pauses to show the children a picture, she notices him, “Children, have you met our principal, Mr. Murray.”

There is a smattering of quiet yeses and nos before Mr. Murray responds, “Hello, kindergartners. I just wanted to say hello to you all on your first day. I can see that you are enjoying your story, so I’ll move on and let you continue.”

“Please come back and visit any time, Mr. Murray.”

“Thank you, Miss Hartwell, I will.”

“Class, can we say goodbye to Mr. Murray?”

There is a smattering of quiet goodbyes as Mr. Murray waves down to the children and exits into the hallway.

Miss Hartwell continues the story. As she reads, all of the young faces look up at her. The young bodies are mostly quiet, but there are small movements among them. A boy hugs his legs to his chest and taps his foot. A girl can’t get comfortable and squirms, stopping the instant that Miss Hartwell looks up from the book to show a picture. Another boy raises his index finger toward his nose, inserts the finger into his nostril, pulls the finger out, examines it, and then slowly brings the finger toward his open mouth.

One second later, Miss Hartwell notices something fly by. There is the briefest of moments where she is able to wonder what it might have been, immediately followed by a wailing coming from the edge of the rug to her right. She turns toward the disturbance and sees a little boy with his hand over his eye, leaning back, mouth open, and screaming toward the ceiling.

She puts her book down, calmly stands up, and walks over to the boy. She crouches down so that she is face to face with him. She rubs his back and lets him cry, waiting for him to calm down. She scans the group of boys and girls on the rug. They look at her expectantly, waiting to see what will happen next. She notices one face that is not looking at her. A slight, pale girl has moved next to the rocking chair, and she is quietly turning the pages of the book Miss Hartwell had been reading.

Miss Hartwell continues to rub the boy’s back as she stares at the girl. When the boy becomes quiet, she turns to him and asks him to lift his hand from over his eye. He takes his hand away slowly, revealing a barely-visible red mark above his eye. She takes a deep breath and exhales, and as she does she notices a bright blue block resting next to the boy.

She picks up the block looks at it and asks, “What happened?”

He points to the block in her hand and shouts, “I got hit by that block!”

“Do you know who threw it?”

The boy shakes his head.

She scans the children, who immediately look down, except for the one little girl who continues to flip the pages of the book.

“Does anyone know who threw the block, children?” There is no response for a few long seconds, and then the girl reading the book looks up and says, “I know.”

“Who?” “Me.” Miss Hartwell pauses, leans over to examine the girl’s nametag, and asks,

“Amelia, why did you throw the block at him?”

“He was picking his nose and eating it,” Amelia says as she scrunches up her face. Miss Hartwell pauses and watches Amelia’s contorted face for a moment before calmly telling the girl, “You could have asked him to stop.”

Amelia shakes her head from side to side, “You told us no talking when you’re reading.” “You could have looked away.” “I tried, but I still knew he was doing it. I couldn’t listen to the story knowing

he was doing that.” The faces of the students have been turning back and forth from Miss Hartwell

to Amelia and now all eyes are resting on Miss Hartwell who taps a cheek as she considers a response, “Do you realize that you hurt him?” “Yes. But I didn’t mean to hit him in the head.”

“Is there anything you’d like to say to him?”

She looks at the boy, scrunches up her face again, “You have to stop picking your nose and eating it so I can listen to the story.”

A couple of the boys on the rug start to giggle. Miss Hartwell instantly stands erect and declares firmly, “Amelia, you cannot throw blocks at other students!”

Amelia looks up calmly at her teacher and says, “I just did.”

“You may not throw blocks at other students!”

“But I told you, he was picking his nose and eating it!”

This time the rug erupts in laughter. Miss Hartwell lunges toward Amelia and puts her hands under Amelia’s armpits and attempts to lift her up. Amelia ferociously slaps the hands away, “Get your hands off of me!” and she stares up at her teacher, eyes narrowed, lips tight, “Just go sit back down and read the story.”

Miss Hartwell and Amelia stand and stare at each other. The mood in the room has changed very quickly. The laughter has died instantly, and the rug is full of rigid little boys and girls. The room remains still and silent for many long seconds until one of the girls bursts into tears and cries out, “I’m scared! I want to go home!”

The faces on the rug turn toward the crying girl, some fighting to hold back their own tears as they watch her tiny body convulse and sniffle. Miss Hartwell looks away from Amelia toward the crying girl.

The girl continues to cry as everyone watches. Miss Hartwell is frozen in place, looking down at the distraught little girl, when she notices a hand gently cup the shoulder of the crying girl. The hand gives the shoulder a squeeze, and the arm that is attached to the hand pulls the girl closer. It’s Amelia. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” she whispers as she hugs the girl and softly rocks her back and forth. Miss Hartwell and her students watch as the rocking continues until the girl settles into Amelia and rests her head on Amelia’s shoulder. Amelia looks up at Miss Hartwell. Amelia’s features have softened, but her gaze remains determined, “It’s all right, Miss Hartwell. Just go sit back down and read the story.”

Miss Hartwell looks down at Amelia and the girl. She scans the room and reads the children’s faces. What Miss Hartwell sees in their expressions is a collective hope that she can make this all better. She turns and looks down at the boy who was hit by the block, and his eyes beg her to go back to reading the story.

After one last look at the calm little girl resting against Amelia, Miss Hartwell quietly whispers, “All right,” but first she steps gingerly between the children and heads toward the classroom door. She closes the door gently and turns the lock. She tugs on the doorknob to make sure that the lock is in place before slowly walking back to her chair. Once she settles into the chair, she rocks herself a few times before she picks up the book and continues reading the story.