Even as an “adult”, the first day of class brings me back, way back, to all the others.
I remember the carpet inside Mrs. Cloake’s classroom, the cushioned book corner and hardcover The Indian In The Cupboard, resting on a chair, poised for reading aloud. The manila-colored, pencil-smeared desks pushed together, sprouting orange and blue plastic chairs. The wall of windows that overlooked the jungle gym and dodge ball court. Then, the entrance of Danny Tavano, and my silent count of the identical number of syllables in our names (five!) and knowing at that moment we were meant to be (though, of course, we weren’t).
Later, the first welcome assembly at prep; pearls, grosgrain and elitism at its finest, for sure, but more, a playground for kids whose parents didn’t want them. As we nervously tugged at our forced uniforms of blazers and khaki skirts, we scanned the auditorium for faces we could relate to, and by graduation had learned to chose advisors, coaches and roommates as confidantes instead of our friends from home, as they were the only others that understood our domed existence.
Now, the familiar groan up mediabistro’s stairs (the Soho outpost). Novels on the fourth floor, wedged between the four-week news anchors and stiletto boot campers, hanging above intro to journalism. A white room with a slatted skylight awaits me, a rectangular table of budding hopefuls, of which I am only one…
I remember the carpet inside Mrs. Cloake’s classroom, the cushioned book corner and hardcover The Indian In The Cupboard, resting on a chair, poised for reading aloud. The manila-colored, pencil-smeared desks pushed together, sprouting orange and blue plastic chairs. The wall of windows that overlooked the jungle gym and dodge ball court. Then, the entrance of Danny Tavano, and my silent count of the identical number of syllables in our names (five!) and knowing at that moment we were meant to be (though, of course, we weren’t).
Later, the first welcome assembly at prep; pearls, grosgrain and elitism at its finest, for sure, but more, a playground for kids whose parents didn’t want them. As we nervously tugged at our forced uniforms of blazers and khaki skirts, we scanned the auditorium for faces we could relate to, and by graduation had learned to chose advisors, coaches and roommates as confidantes instead of our friends from home, as they were the only others that understood our domed existence.
Now, the familiar groan up mediabistro’s stairs (the Soho outpost). Novels on the fourth floor, wedged between the four-week news anchors and stiletto boot campers, hanging above intro to journalism. A white room with a slatted skylight awaits me, a rectangular table of budding hopefuls, of which I am only one…
7 comments:
there is a difference between "budding hopeful", and "budding hopeful with demonstrated talent," of which you are the latter...
Sounds like the beginning of a novel...
I was going to ask if it is a mediabistro class you are taking. I love their seminars.
daunting isn't it? I feel it all the time, but so much good will come out of it for you, I know!
dont let yourself get caught up in the "now im just one of many new witers in a how to write class." You're honest, skilled and educated. "When you got it flaunt it"
I'm excited for the book!
I always dreaded the end of vacation and the first day of school.
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