Not Much Of Anything But Children Running
This morning I got all dressed like I usually do with maybe a little more effort than casual (vis a vis vest and vis a vis heels), but being Wednesday, instead of a bar or coffee or a bookstore I went to SMART. Start Making A Reader Today. A friend sold me on it, and it's practically no effort and a joy on top of that. I generally show up, go find the proper first grader that I'm assigned to, and read with them for thirty minutes. Then I get another first grader and do the same thing. They're the ones who read, for a majority of the time, unless they get bored or tired and want me to take over. I look over their shoulders and remember again how complex the English language is, and how many dumb little contradictions it's got in words, where pronunciations are so fluid, so varied, so unpindownable. Anyway, that's the usual as far as the SMART experience goes.
Today was a smidge different, as there was some kind of running event happening. I signed in at the office, grabbed an official visitor lanyard, and showed up at the classroom (even a minute or two early, for once). The coordinator woman was there to greet me, but she said that we'd be going out to cheer the first graders during their run. She mentioned pom-poms . Sounded fine to me, sounded fun to me, made me wish I had grabbed that scarf after all. I leaned up against the doorway for a few minutes while we waited for the kids to get ready, and she asked if I went to work right after the program. No, no, it's my day off. You look so nice, though, one of the other volunteers says, an older lady. She looks down at her sneakers and laughs, and I do that move where I try to eat one of my ears with one of my shoulders. I overdress for everything, pretty much, I say.
I walked down to the school's field with the older lady. Both of us trailed behind two rambling lines of first graders, and about halfway down the hall I realized that I am absolutely terrible at walking in a line, quietly, with hands to myself, paying attention to the teacher. I wonder if the kids felt any of the same indignation or justification that I had, when I realized that both myself and the other volunteer were dawdling, looking at the art tacked up on the walls, discussing it quietly to each other. I said that of course -children- have to walk quietly. If they don't, they'll get too excited and they'll be hard to calm down. I tried to think if adults are the same way, or if it's just that no one's around to make them calm down. Being grown-up is kind of like being everything you wanted to be when you were a kid. At least the way I grew up.
When we got outside, I sort of got aimless. There were the straggly rows of kids being told things, and there were big speakers set up, and orange cones marked a square that took up half the field. I spotted the box of pom-poms and was on my way to pick one out when a particularly harried appearing teacher asked if I was doing anything. I shrugged and said no, and she pointed out a girl with both elbows and arms folded inside of her white t-shirt. She needs her jacket, she said, and thrust a dangling grip of keys at me. Room 21. I nodded a bit and explained the idea to the first grader, who followed me back into the school, and down the hall to the right room, where she found her jacket. We talked, but none of the obvious questions came up. She volunteered that she had ear surgery, so she couldn't run. It didn't hurt, the surgery, because she was asleep. And now she can hear better. When we got back outside, the other kids were already off in a great flock, a flurry of rainbow accented sneakers pounding light on the pavement, and then slogging around the damp grass of the field.
I went over and got a white pom-pom, and the first grader followed me, and picked up a purple one. The big speakers were jangling out Kool & The Gang, and the running kids were starting to stretch out on the path around the field, so we stood over across from the jungle gym and waited for the first sprinters to pass the checkpoint. When they got there, they'd hold out a piece of laminated construction paper, and one of the teachers would holepunch it, and then the kid would take off again, usually much faster than they had arrived. After a couple of minutes, both of us shaking our respective pom-poms in the air, me shouting "woooooo" and her waving hi to friends she knew, I leaned down and asked how many laps they were running. She shrugged her shoulders. I stood up again and grasped the handle of the pom-pom so that the streamers fell down around my hand and kept it warm. I jammed my other hand in the front pocket of my coat and yelled some more. A couple of Will Smith songs came on, and I noted lyrics this time around that I don't think I had caught back in 1997.
I tried to figure out how many laps I could run. I didn't think I could run that many. I still didn't know how many the kids were running, or if there was some point to it. Maybe just an event designed to tucker them out. I stood there and tried to think of new ways of cheering with a pom-pom, and then I imagined myself as the slightly socialite mother of one of the children, who shows up to support but sticks out among the other mothers like a sore thumb. Circa the early sixties, I think, if you go by the half-collar on my coat. I finally spotted one of the kids I read with, and she's running sort of weakly, her pink fleece hoodie grasped in one hand. The next lap where she passed, I offered to hold it, and when she hands it to me I'm pretty pleased. I thought about how an actual runner wouldn't be expected to hold onto an article of clothing while they did laps. I wonder if this is a double standard for kids, an unfair one.
The lady with a megaphone stood by the teachers punching lap cards, and shouted out that there's only fifteen minutes left. I tried to figure out if I misunderstood her, but apparently they expect the kids to run for a half-hour. I think I must have severely underestimated the capabilities of children. I watched the different kids that passed by, some of them jogging, some of them starting on new quick paced sprints, some sort of almost walking. None of them holding their sides or anything. A majority seemed happy. I was a little cold. I churned the pom-pom around in the air, tried to look freshly enthusiastic for each kid. My first-grader ran a couple of laps around me. Some of the kids started to wave when they passed.
By the time that the megaphone told them that there's five minutes left in the run, I'd gotten almost bored, and so had the kids. By now, if they put the effort into a running start to each lap, they lag almost immediately, as soon as they get past the playground. Some of them are leaned over, with a hand pressed to their side as they run. The teachers told them to slow down, take it easy, but any kid who was dedicated enough to get a sideache in the first place isn't gonna walk just because they're told to. One of the older kids, working as a volunteer, was singing along with "Dancing In The Streets." The first grade girl next to me had her pom-pom held with both hands just under her nose, and her hood pulled up. The teachers stopped just watching and started walking around, preparing to have their classes back. The lunch lady pulled on gloves and sat behind the table of post-run snacks. A three year old who'd been climbing around on the cedarchip carpeted jungle gym area comes up onto the pavement and starts running alongside one of the kids, but almost immediately busts herself on the sidewalk, and I was a couple feet away, and stepped forward to help her up and ask if she's alright, sweetie, but she looked at me like I shouldn't quite exist, and then shook me off a little and stepped to her mother, and then twisted up that face and started her crying.
When they announced that the run was finished, all of the kids pulled to a slow walk, almost sagging, and then immediately curtailed the projected lap in order to cut across the field and to the snack table. I cheered them on until the last one made it past the last orange cone, and then I felt useless again, so I went over and put the pom-pom away, and then handed the one girl back her hoodie. The girl who'd been standing by me came over and asked me to open her juice bottle, so I picked at the foil lid with my cold fingers until I peeled enough back that I figured she could probably drink it, and then handed it back. She thanked me and ran off again, and so I decided my work was probably pretty much done. I went back into the school and turned in my lanyard, signed out at the office, and that was it for my volunteer work for this week.
Today was a smidge different, as there was some kind of running event happening. I signed in at the office, grabbed an official visitor lanyard, and showed up at the classroom (even a minute or two early, for once). The coordinator woman was there to greet me, but she said that we'd be going out to cheer the first graders during their run. She mentioned pom-poms . Sounded fine to me, sounded fun to me, made me wish I had grabbed that scarf after all. I leaned up against the doorway for a few minutes while we waited for the kids to get ready, and she asked if I went to work right after the program. No, no, it's my day off. You look so nice, though, one of the other volunteers says, an older lady. She looks down at her sneakers and laughs, and I do that move where I try to eat one of my ears with one of my shoulders. I overdress for everything, pretty much, I say.
I walked down to the school's field with the older lady. Both of us trailed behind two rambling lines of first graders, and about halfway down the hall I realized that I am absolutely terrible at walking in a line, quietly, with hands to myself, paying attention to the teacher. I wonder if the kids felt any of the same indignation or justification that I had, when I realized that both myself and the other volunteer were dawdling, looking at the art tacked up on the walls, discussing it quietly to each other. I said that of course -children- have to walk quietly. If they don't, they'll get too excited and they'll be hard to calm down. I tried to think if adults are the same way, or if it's just that no one's around to make them calm down. Being grown-up is kind of like being everything you wanted to be when you were a kid. At least the way I grew up.
When we got outside, I sort of got aimless. There were the straggly rows of kids being told things, and there were big speakers set up, and orange cones marked a square that took up half the field. I spotted the box of pom-poms and was on my way to pick one out when a particularly harried appearing teacher asked if I was doing anything. I shrugged and said no, and she pointed out a girl with both elbows and arms folded inside of her white t-shirt. She needs her jacket, she said, and thrust a dangling grip of keys at me. Room 21. I nodded a bit and explained the idea to the first grader, who followed me back into the school, and down the hall to the right room, where she found her jacket. We talked, but none of the obvious questions came up. She volunteered that she had ear surgery, so she couldn't run. It didn't hurt, the surgery, because she was asleep. And now she can hear better. When we got back outside, the other kids were already off in a great flock, a flurry of rainbow accented sneakers pounding light on the pavement, and then slogging around the damp grass of the field.
I went over and got a white pom-pom, and the first grader followed me, and picked up a purple one. The big speakers were jangling out Kool & The Gang, and the running kids were starting to stretch out on the path around the field, so we stood over across from the jungle gym and waited for the first sprinters to pass the checkpoint. When they got there, they'd hold out a piece of laminated construction paper, and one of the teachers would holepunch it, and then the kid would take off again, usually much faster than they had arrived. After a couple of minutes, both of us shaking our respective pom-poms in the air, me shouting "woooooo" and her waving hi to friends she knew, I leaned down and asked how many laps they were running. She shrugged her shoulders. I stood up again and grasped the handle of the pom-pom so that the streamers fell down around my hand and kept it warm. I jammed my other hand in the front pocket of my coat and yelled some more. A couple of Will Smith songs came on, and I noted lyrics this time around that I don't think I had caught back in 1997.
I tried to figure out how many laps I could run. I didn't think I could run that many. I still didn't know how many the kids were running, or if there was some point to it. Maybe just an event designed to tucker them out. I stood there and tried to think of new ways of cheering with a pom-pom, and then I imagined myself as the slightly socialite mother of one of the children, who shows up to support but sticks out among the other mothers like a sore thumb. Circa the early sixties, I think, if you go by the half-collar on my coat. I finally spotted one of the kids I read with, and she's running sort of weakly, her pink fleece hoodie grasped in one hand. The next lap where she passed, I offered to hold it, and when she hands it to me I'm pretty pleased. I thought about how an actual runner wouldn't be expected to hold onto an article of clothing while they did laps. I wonder if this is a double standard for kids, an unfair one.
The lady with a megaphone stood by the teachers punching lap cards, and shouted out that there's only fifteen minutes left. I tried to figure out if I misunderstood her, but apparently they expect the kids to run for a half-hour. I think I must have severely underestimated the capabilities of children. I watched the different kids that passed by, some of them jogging, some of them starting on new quick paced sprints, some sort of almost walking. None of them holding their sides or anything. A majority seemed happy. I was a little cold. I churned the pom-pom around in the air, tried to look freshly enthusiastic for each kid. My first-grader ran a couple of laps around me. Some of the kids started to wave when they passed.
By the time that the megaphone told them that there's five minutes left in the run, I'd gotten almost bored, and so had the kids. By now, if they put the effort into a running start to each lap, they lag almost immediately, as soon as they get past the playground. Some of them are leaned over, with a hand pressed to their side as they run. The teachers told them to slow down, take it easy, but any kid who was dedicated enough to get a sideache in the first place isn't gonna walk just because they're told to. One of the older kids, working as a volunteer, was singing along with "Dancing In The Streets." The first grade girl next to me had her pom-pom held with both hands just under her nose, and her hood pulled up. The teachers stopped just watching and started walking around, preparing to have their classes back. The lunch lady pulled on gloves and sat behind the table of post-run snacks. A three year old who'd been climbing around on the cedarchip carpeted jungle gym area comes up onto the pavement and starts running alongside one of the kids, but almost immediately busts herself on the sidewalk, and I was a couple feet away, and stepped forward to help her up and ask if she's alright, sweetie, but she looked at me like I shouldn't quite exist, and then shook me off a little and stepped to her mother, and then twisted up that face and started her crying.
When they announced that the run was finished, all of the kids pulled to a slow walk, almost sagging, and then immediately curtailed the projected lap in order to cut across the field and to the snack table. I cheered them on until the last one made it past the last orange cone, and then I felt useless again, so I went over and put the pom-pom away, and then handed the one girl back her hoodie. The girl who'd been standing by me came over and asked me to open her juice bottle, so I picked at the foil lid with my cold fingers until I peeled enough back that I figured she could probably drink it, and then handed it back. She thanked me and ran off again, and so I decided my work was probably pretty much done. I went back into the school and turned in my lanyard, signed out at the office, and that was it for my volunteer work for this week.