I suppose that the longing I feel when the school supply ads begin is now part of my DNA. Back to School has always been a big deal for me starting as a five-year-old at Mrs. Tiser’s kindergarten and continuing every year after that—elementary school, middle, high, college, credential and, finally, in my own classroom as a teacher. A continuum of First Days that combine sharp focus with hazy memory. Those stories are the through line of my life.
It’s a multi-sensory experience I have every fall when the school year begins. As a very young child, I loved the magic, even the smell, of a new box of crayons. They were perfect and in the right order. The school bus yellow Box of twenty-four included vibrant colors with simple names: green, red, blue. If you were lucky enough to have a box of forty-eight, you were introduced to new worlds with colors like burnt umber and maize and there was an eraser built into the box! And the paste. . .that solid little bottle of LePage glue that seemed so adult with its crusty rubber tip and intoxicating odor.
Our wooden desks, always in neat little rows, had awkward lift-up tops. When it was time to “put everything away,” it all went into our laps before it could go into the storage space under the desktop. The teacher had colorful tented name plates and assigned our seating. She (almost certainly a woman) had arranged the boys and girls in a random, cross-your-fingers-this-works world order. There would be adjustments to that seating chart through the year but those first day assignments generally stuck and our futures would be shaped by that random placement. The annoying boy behind me became my crush and nemesis. The girl in the seat in front of me became my confidant and co-conspirator. Each year our randomness turned into order and connection.
I remember how it felt to hold my father’s hand as he walked me to school or, later, to the school bus, sometimes slipping me a note about making it a great day. I wish I had saved those.
By middle school, back to school meant one thing—wardrobe! And wardrobe meant trips into Denver, the closest thing to Metropolis, for the annual school clothes shopping trip. My mom and I set off with a budget and a fierce sense of purpose as we searched out the fashions that would see me through, we hoped, to the next school year. It was a splurge that ended in celebration at the May Company department store diner before we drove the hour back home.
There were simple back to school moments of childhood when learning was simply a way to be near friends. I remember getting my schedule and feeling relieved that I’d gotten Chorus—the elective I wanted, Mrs. Hall—the English teacher I wanted, and Second Lunch which matched up with my friends.
And then we moved to California. Ugh! As the new kid, the first day of school can be pretty awful and those melancholy memories are still fresh when I think about the middle school halls of California—all outdoors, fully exposed and exposing. With that same clothing budget, my mother and I made ill-informed decisions about what would be right and boy, did we get it wrong. Humiliatingly wrong. Mostly because of the shoes. Every kid, I suspect, has a back to school horror story and mine includes those shoes.
It might be my first memory of ignoring my instincts. The chosen outfit, in the pink and cranberry palate of the time, could have ended acceptably with a light touch of footwear, perhaps Keds. The outfit was certainly strong enough—a patterned skirt, matching vest and a pale blouse. It wasn’t a terrible choice but it was brought to a crashing finale with black and white oxfords. A total non-sequitur to the ensemble and a horror show to anyone living in California at that time—or so I felt. It was all made worse when my aunt, hoping to comfort, suggested that I just might have just set a new trend.
By the next year I had found my footing and the right shoes and it was all about friends and back-to-school supplies—the 3-ring canvas binder and hole-punched pencil case with #2 pencils, a little sharpener, a pink pearl eraser, and a pen in case it was required or I was feeling confident. The Pee-Chee folders still had stiff corners. The despised but necessary gym uniform was still unblemished.
First day of school at each level—elementary, middle and high school—had an electricity of possibilities but none more than high school. No social media for the baby boomers—we’d all been sheltered from each other, with rare exceptions, so the thrill of catching-up was second only to comparing schedules to find out who was in which science or civics or Spanish class with which teacher and when, dear god, was PE because it would make all the difference for hair and make-up. Which boys had morphed into something with potential—even shocking good looks. Which girls had grown breasts, which couples had stayed together. And where would we all sit for lunch?
It was all about the first day.
College wasn’t about a first day of school as much as it was about a first day in a whole new life—people, place and things. Dorms, roommates, jobs, expectations, freedom. First day got enveloped into the many moving parts of a more serious journey. But the thrill was still there.
After college I made a quick return to “first day is everything” with my own classroom. It all needed tender attention—bulletin boards were created, the class lists were practiced, lesson plans were painstakingly outlined, even rehearsed, and, of course, mimeographed handouts were printed. A fair bit of purple print always remained on my hands.
And we’re off. . .
“Good morning. I’m Ms. Vetter. This is Freshman Comp/Speech/English Lit and I’m glad you’re here—and I’m scared to death—eighth grade scared to death—but I’ll try very hard to convince you that I’ve done this before and I really don’t know what I’m doing!” I didn’t say that last part. My heart pounded as if I was wearing those oxfords and walking those outdoor halls again for the first time.
Just like middle school, I survived and the next year’s first day was easier and the one after that and the one after that. I could pick out the kid who was scared and help them find a place. I could spot the aloneness of the boy who had just moved from Kentucky or Florida or Mexico and pair them up with a welcoming friend. I got good at First Day.
I left the Back to School world for a few years but picked it up again—this time as a mom. Then September meant the start of packing lunches, driving carpool, helping with homework. Those first days when a little boy gripped my hand as we set out to find the classroom, meet the teacher, stock the cubby—those were precious moments that would slowly shift for the next thirteen years of first days for my son—and for his parents. The last ones were about little more than a kiss on the cheek and, “Have a good day.”
It’s Back to School time again and I begin to wonder how it feels for children. Is it still a time of excitement? Is it still about finding your friends, finding your seat, finding your place?
So much has changed since I was a kid. Start date, for one. There was no middle-of-August start date in my youth. School started the Tuesday after Labor Day. Everywhere. Period. The names of the crayons have gotten fancier—Scarlet, Cornflower and Chestnut. The original Flesh was renamed Peach in 1962. Thank goodness.
Back to school supply lists have a few constants: rulers, three-ring binders and, blessedly, number two pencils but the list for children has been amended to include anti-bacterial hand sanitizer. Older students will also need a few USB flash drives.
All of this is top of mind for me right now. Partly because I am hard wired to be a bit melancholy when I think of all the first school days I lived—and loved—and miss. Mostly because my little Mirabel is starting Kindergarten. She will fill her new backpack with fresh crayons, a Big Chief tablet, hand sanitizer. She will hold her mom or dad’s hand as they walk the few blocks to her first public school classroom, be met by her teacher (still almost certainly a woman) and head in alone to begin her first-in-a-series of First Days.
Will the teacher greet her at the door and understand immediately that this is a magical child who needs very little to be one of the most extraordinary students she will experience as a teacher? Will Mirabel have a name plate on her desk beside a young child who will be a positive part of her whole life? Will she begin to feel the things that become a thread that turn into a string and finally a rope that binds her life together with sweet memories of back to school?
A grandmother can hope.
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