While we wait there, looking around and wondering about procedures, the morning turns from sweetly sunny and warm – could that be a hint of Fall? – to hot sun, the blacktop absorbing heat. Parents in slacks and jeans sweat as they wait in clumps around the perimeter.
The first day of school, 2018.
My community: people in all shades of black and brown and cream and white. Children with braids and curls and gelled spikes. Babies in sandals and strollers. Grandmas holding young hands nervously balled into fists. Parents giving last kisses and squeezes, assurances in different languages, waving as they walk away.
The teachers look comfortable in jeans, casual shoes, and t-shirts labeled with their grade level or position. They look calm. They have done this all before. They weave through crowds of parents and children until they claim the spot for their class’s line.
And there is my golden-haired daughter in line. Her headband is askew and her socks are uneven, but she is a model Kindergartener. Waiting for instructions, holding tight to her lunchbox and water. She stands behind a boy with a Ninja Turtles backpack (hers is the school-gifted, purple, off-brand one – she loves it.) She is nervous. She glances at her father and me constantly while the principal gives the welcoming remarks. I catch her eye and she waves – quickly, anxiously, with relief. We repeat this a few times. I don’t want to look away, either.
It’s time to go in, and her teacher curves the student line toward the entrance. My daughter waves again, smiles, looks worried. “Have fun!” we say. “Bye-bye!” I remember the feel of her small hand in mine during our walk from the car to the school grounds. I didn’t want to let go when we found her classmates. But it was time. It’s time for her to start Kindergarten.
The first day of school, 2018.
There is something reassuring
