Entry #4: Line Leaders and Chicken Soup With Rice

I have no idea why I remember this, but when I was in Kindergarten, my teacher assigned each day a "Line Leader". This person was the first in line no matter where we went. If she told us to line up at the door, the Line Leader was first there, and everyone had to fall in behind them. It was probably one of those things Primary Ed teachers do that we Secondary Ed teachers simply cannot grasp or would never consider...which is why I'm more at ease in a 7th grade class room than I ever will be in elementary school!

At any rate, the Line Leader was chosen alphabetically. On one of the bulletin boards was a little cartoon picture--one for a boy, one for a girl--stuck to a yellow piece of paper, mimeographed (yes, I went to school in the days of dittos) and coloured with our own personal details. Mine, for example, showed a girl with long blonde hair and green eyes dressed in a green plaid dress and black shoes, one of the more stylish outfits I wore as a child. My teacher, Mrs. Gibson, used the picture to keep track of things we had done. One assignment was to bring in an empty coffee can so we could paint it and make a bird feeder, a classic little kid art activity. So when you brought in your can, she drew a picture of a can on your card. This way everyone could see what they needed to do. Simple and ingenious, really, considering how picture-related kids are.

So the Line Leader's picture had a star over it. It started up at the top, obviously, with the person whose came fell first alphabetically. I was used to this sort of thing: with the last name starting with a "P", I always came a bit toward the end (though not nearly as bad as my friend Melanie whose last name started with a "W"...she suffered from Preferential Alphabetical Seating her entire school career). When the day was up, Mrs. Gibson moved the star on to the next person who became Line Leader the following morning and got to wear the coveted Blue Piece of Paper on a String around their neck.

I longed for that blue square of paper more than you can imagine. It was a sign, an outward symbol of my importance. It would make me unique, wonderful, and most of all, Respected.

That Friday afternoon, the star had hung over Stacy's name all day, and she'd enjoyed a wonderful day as Line Leader. I knew, come Monday morning, that the star would hang over my name, and my teacher, coming down the hall to collect us, would be bearing the Blue Piece of Paper on a String which she would loop over my head with an imagined trumpet fanfare. She'd take my hand and say to the gathered plebians, "Patricia is our Line Leader today". And in my head they'd be awed and hushed with my magnificence. I'd waited for that moment all during the long weekend, thinking about every other minute how I'd be the BEST Line Leader ever, so good that Mrs. Gibson would say to the next person after me, Rachel, "Well, you know what...Patricia did SUCH a good job I think we'll let her do it another day. You understand, don't you, Rachel?" And Rachel, a girl who annoyed me to no end, who used to spit the stones of her plums into my lunch box when we were eating, would dissolve into a pile of tears as she beheld her own inadequate state.

Oh, I knew what the power of being Line Leader could be.

Monday morning came, and as we all lined up in the front hallway, I calmly took my place at the front of the queue, shoving other kids out of the way and firmly standing my ground when they whined, "She BUTTED! Mrs. Gibson, she BUTTED!"

Mrs. Gibson, probably one of the best teachers I ever had and who always smelled like flowers, frowned down at me. "Patricia, that's not like you. Pleasae, get in the back where you belong. You know how to stand in line."

"I'm the Line Leader!" I proclaimed.

She shook her head. "No, dear, not today. It's not your turn."

"Yes it is!" I insisted, my voice rising. "It is SO my turn! I'm the Line Leader!"

"No, I don't think so."

"YES! I! AM!"

Everyone froze to their spots and stared at me. Nobody moved. I could feel tears pushing out from my eyes, but I was NOT going to back down. I was THE LINE LEADER, and if necessary, I'd start screaming some of the words I'd heard my brother say when he was mad. That always made the adults stop talking and stare.

Mrs. Gibson looked very sad. "Patricia, I cannot have you come into our class room if you're going to behave like that. Please sit on the bench here. I will come back in a few minutes, and by then I hope you'll decide to behave."

I turned and sat down HARD on the bench, scowling, arms crossed. I didn't care. I knew I was right. I had waited for this day, and nothing was going to stop it. They could call my mother. They could call my FATHER, and I would take each of them by the hand, march them to the class room, and show them the bulletin board where the star was going to hang over my name today. I'd even show God, if He came through the door right this minute. God would understand. He was always right, and no one ever said otherwise. I bet God would even throw a few lightning bolts at someone for telling Him He wasn't the Line Leader...

About 10 minutes later, after watching people coming and going, some staring at me, some ignoring me completely, Mrs. Gibson came back. She sat down beside me, put her hand on my shoulder, and said something no teacher has ever said to me since.

"Patricia," she murmured, "I'm sorry. I didn't know that today was your day. You're right...today you're the Line Leader. Why don't you come down now, and I'll put the star over your name...and we can try to have a good day?"

I wiped away my tears and nodded. And the rest of the day was glorious. I wore that blue piece of paper with my chin held high. And I loved my teacher for telling me she'd made a mistake and for trying to make it up to me. I even got to keep the Blue Piece of Paper on a String which hung on my wall for years. My brother and sister laughed at it, but I didn't care. I knew what I'd gone through to earn it.

Not all of my kindergarten experiences were so traumatic, although I always seemed to be confused a lot of the time. It was all so new, and everyone looked like they knew exactly what they were supposed to do. On my very first day, I sat by myself, staring at a globe, spinning it around and looking for where I lived. We had one at home, and my brother and I used to twirl it and giggle at the names of the countries. So that's what I did, for three hours, interrupted only by having lunch or being told it was time to go out and play. It was easy for me to make friends, but in truth, I usually just wanted to be left alone.

Around November, Mrs. Gibson introduced us to a new song. She had one of those indestructable school turntables in an Army green and black, and once we had assembled on the carpet, she said, "I have a new book to read to you, boys and girls. It's called 'Chicken Soup With Rice', and I think you'll like it." Which we all did, very much.

Then she turned on the record player, set the needle down, and lo, a song started to play which was EXACTLY like the book, word for word. As it went on, Mrs. Gibson silently turned the pages of the book so we could follow along. It was AWESOME, like magic.

And before I knew it, she'd started the record over, and we were all singing, "Oh my once, oh my twice...oh my chicken soup with riiiiiiice..."

And that song ruled our every waking hour for about two months. It was ALWAYS on the turn table, a thousand times an hour. The saintly Mrs. Gibson read it every day for story time, never tiring of the same story over and over again.

We were obsessed, every one of us, with this song. I even asked my mom if I could have chicken soup with rice for dinner every night. It had taken over our lives. So Mrs. Gibson did the only thing she could: she scheduled an assembly where we would sit on the stage and sing, among other songs, "Chicken Soup With Rice" in front of the whole school. I'm thinking she probably hoped this would work it out of our system, as her morning Kindergarten was equally as obsessed with the song.

But a few girls in our class weren't content with merely singing and asked if they could stage a bit of a show. And's that exactly what happened: as we sat and sang, the four girls whose idea it was to put on this little extravaganza paraded across the stage, holding signs and pictures they'd drawn to enhance the experience. As we sang, "In February it will be/My snowman's anniversary/With cake for him and soup for me!", out paraded Julie with a picture of a snowman eating a piece of cake; Stacy followed behind with a drawing of a big steaming bowl of soup.

We performed this magical piece about three times in one day, and as we trooped back to the class room and sat down, Mrs. Gibson congratulated us on a job well done. She picked up a new book and said, "And now it's time for something else. Let's take a look at--"

"Nooooo!" we all yelled. "Nothing new! Read 'Chicken Soup with Rice' again! PUUUUHHHLEEEEEEEEZE!"

Mrs. Gibson sighed, hung her head, and said, "How about if I just put the record on, and you can listen to it until it's time to go home??" The woman was a saint, she really was.

So that's what we did. We sat at our desks and coloured whilst the song played over and over again. As it was a hot day, Mrs. Gibson turned off the lights and we coloured by the bright sunshine.

On the fourth replay, however, something went amiss. Julie, in a fit of musical passion, had tried to stand up on the desk where the record player was placed, and was attempting to do a sort of shimmying dance with her feet wedged on either side of the turn table. Her shoes slipped, and before anyone could catch her, she'd tumbled arse over teakettle onto the floor, the needle scraped across the record, and the 45 cracked into bits as the turn table hit the tiles with a terrible crash.

Mrs. Gibson looked up, froze, quickly assessed the situation, and I swear to this day, when she saw that record shattered into a million pieces, a smile crept across her face. She speedily wiped it off and went to help Julie who was bawling from shock but not seriously injured, as she'd landed atop a pile of stuffed animals.

Thus ended the Chicken Soup With Rice Tyranny in the afternoon Kindergarten of Woodmore Elementary School. Secretly, I was glad because I beginning to grow tired of the song. I don't know how Mrs. Gibson broke the news to the morning Kindergarten, but as far as I can remember, the record was never replaced, and Mrs. Gibson went on to teach Kindergarten until I was in University. Now THAT'S staying power.