The Hallway

When I was in elementary school, we spent our days in desks like this, arranged in straight rows facing the blackboard. Facing the teacher. If we needed to move about, we formed neat lines. Each child followed someone, certain of her place.

There was comfort in that structure. Maybe I was in the Bluebird reading group or the Robin readers, but I was in. Not out. In the third grade, two teachers inspired zealous class loyalty.  Mrs. Madison and Mrs. Datismun. I'm not sure of the spelling, but I'm positive of the pronunciation. We used to march around the playground in a bizarre competition, yelling our teachers' names. Ma-di-son! Clockwise, following the fence around the blacktop. Da-tis-mun! Counterclockwise. Louder. Like some fanatical Hitler youth.

But I wasn't always in. Sometimes teachers didn't know what to do with me. If I already knew the spelling words, for instance, or read too fast, or could find the parts of speech with lightening speed. Then of course I didn't need to be in the classroom. So I was sent to the hallway. It was darker there. The windows were for kids in the classrooms, not the one in the hallway. It was quiet. Hollow. Lonely.

Now, nearly half a century later I appreciate the gift of looking at life from the outside. It is a place where wisdom lives. So I've begun to speak from the hallway.