Preschool on 5th Avenue

PreSchool on 5th Avenue

Written By Afua Pinamang

Photos Provided By Aqua Pinamang

Drive down 15th, speed down the hill, stop at the red light beside the low-hanging trees.

I’ve seen these trees grow and change, adjusting to the world around them. Their roots bubble up, seeping through the cracks of the concrete which once laid flat. I watch as a group of four-year-olds pour out of the preschool building's doors. Suddenly, my eyes blur and I escape into a memory of when I was small and mighty too. 

 I went to that same preschool two blocks east of my house. It’s also where my mom taught for 21 years. I don’t remember much about my childhood demeanor, but my mom says I was social, bossy, and kids knew not to mess with me. I laugh because it sounds like she's describing the leader of a biker gang rather than her youngest child. I have flashes of being the kid who raised their hand first to sit on Santa’s lap. Or when I got upset and told a classmate, “You can’t just be a mom when you grow up.” She had to pick a real job, I demanded. I was also the kid that refused to take a nap.

The classroom was larger than life—granted, that was my four-year-old perception—and being in the 40th percentile for height, everything was as if I was a pawn on a giant chess board. A huge, blue rug was laid in the room for daily circle time, where we read books and sang nursery rhymes. At lunch, I traded regular milk for a sweeter, chocolate one. The play area took up most of the space. An arts and crafts section that smelled sharply of half-broken, well-loved miscellaneous crayons. Play kitchens and stores fully equipped with plastic versions of things we preschoolers were never allowed to touch. The girls played house or store and parroted our parents, displaying our understanding of the world. “You’re the baby and I’m the mom today,” I hissed at a friend. 

The limitless supply of four-year-old energy was to remain subdued at nap time and I respected that. I sat upright picking at the woven strands of the bright blue sleep mat. Occasionally, I’d dart my eyes to the clock pretending I knew how to read it. Hearing the tick, tick, tick of the long red hand was proof enough that time was passing. I was unfazed by the steps of my teacher checking to see if the kids were sleeping.

In my memory her face is blurry, but her words are sharp. “You should be asleep, Afua. I’ll let your mom know later,” she said as she walked away. All three of my teachers knew my mom outside of the parent-teacher relationship—they were co-workers, attending trainings together and gossiping about other classrooms at pick-up. My nepotism gave me a confidence boost. I felt a sense of closeness to all my teachers because of this. I wasn’t just any student, I was Ama’s daughter. This was my chance to exercise my privilege and confidently correct my teacher. How was she to know my brother was picking me up instead of my mom? I earnestly corrected her with no alternative motives of brattiness or sass. I knew I made a mistake when I saw her turn back to me and firmly say, “I’ll tell him then.” Uh-oh! I was shocked by her change in tone.

I waited anxiously for the end of the day. Hoping my teacher would forget about our little scuffle—it was the first word out of her mouth when she saw my oldest brother, KB. As he walked us home, I dragged my feet through the leaves, reveling in the sound they made against my shoes. I thought it would annoy him, but when I looked up he remained tall and unbothered, my fearless leader. He is 10 years my senior so I hung onto his every word and followed behind him like an imprinted baby duck

Walk past the low-hanging trees, walk up the hill, look both ways then cross over on 15th Avenue.

As we crossed the street, I reached for my brother’s hand in a robotic muscle memory movement. He didn’t look down at me; we just clung together like magnets. I had walked this path a million times, but now I had a pit in my stomach approaching our red door. 

When my brother flatly told our mom about me “talking back” during nap time, I expected more dramatics from both of them. I was prepared to ramble on, excusing my behavior. Being four-and-a-half years old, I barely understood the rules of the world. Adults don’t like when you lie, but they also don’t like when you tell the truth. Nothing makes sense and it’s frustrating.

My mother, probably tired from a day’s work taming her own flock of preschoolers, was curt in her retort to my alleged disobedience. I don’t remember her exact response, but knowing my mother—or “the broken record” as my brothers and I call her fondly—it was probably one of her many wisdom one-liners. “You’re there to listen and learn, not to talk back,” or “All you have to say is ‘okay,’ nothing else.” 

Heeding my mother’s advice, the next day I walked to school having learned a vital lesson: the art of not talking back! Even if my teacher was dead wrong, let her be wrong. I walked into the classroom and, with a nudge from my mother, I uttered an apology. It was sincere enough to get by but I was still unsure about what I did wrong.