School Assembly

1965. I am seven years old.  I am in the second grade at Tilton school.  Tilton is a K-8 school.  Big kids mixed with little kids—maybe not always a good idea.  Big kids can be mean to little kids.  Like the time during school assembly.  My teacher sends me on an errand.  I like doing errands for my teacher.  It makes me feel special.  I know my teacher likes me.  She says I am smart for seven years old.  I like being smart.  It gives me hope.  It makes ME feel big.

I am on my errand for my teacher during school assembly.  No one is supposed to be in the hallway.  I am happy and have happy thoughts.  I skip to hear my penny loafers on the hard and shiny school floors.  As I slowly make my way to the school office, the echo of approaching footsteps are suddenly within earshot, and soon my perfect schoolgirl world is interrupted by the twins.  Identical brothers with bushy eyebrows and lop-sided naturals (afros).  They are in the eighth grade.  They are meaner than most kids. They are bullies, they are like a horror movie in my head.  They are not in assembly.  They are not on an errand because they are not smart for eighth graders. I know I am smarter than them stupid boys.  They are bad and get into trouble a lot.  A LOT. 

They see me and want to be mean.  I know they are not going to be nice to me.  I am afraid; I don’t think I’m safe. My stomach feels funny.  I wish I was not on an errand for my teacher, anymore.  I wish I were not alone skipping in the hallway being happy like I should be.  I wish those mean and evil twins would go the other way.  If I close my eyes and wish hard enough, maybe they’d disappear.  I want magic powers.  I long for a miracle.

Persimmons

I am so excited about my trip. It has been 6 years in the making, and the weather could not be more beautiful for a journey to Aunt Alma’s Abundant Community Garden.  Today’s temperature is in the upper 80s, not unusual for September in the Bay Area.  With my faithful walking companion, my 6 year-old grandson, Isaiah, at my side, we head out of the house just before noon.  Aunt Alma’s can get pretty busy on Saturdays, but today is a special day for both Isaiah and me.  He is as excited as I am because we have been taking this trip to the garden since he was just six months old.  The fact that there will be lots of people there only makes the occasion more festive, like a holiday.  Yes, today is a special day.

As we make our way down the breezeway onto the sunny side of the street, we grab hands.  My rule.  Whenever we walk we must hold hands, especially at busy intersections and when crossing the street.  Isaiah doesn’t mind, and is the first to reach out for my hand.  “Gimme your hand, granma” he says.  I smile down at this little person on my left.  He smiles back.  “We are going to see the Persimmons, huh, granma?” he asks as if persimmons were a family and not the beautiful orange fruit that makes a delicious bread, something I’d promise we’d do today when we get back home with our bounty. Isaiah loves helping me in the kitchen.  Like his dad, I think he is also going to be a chef.  “Yes, baby, we are going to see the Persimmons.  We have been waiting a long time for them to arrive, and today we’re in for a treat.”   My handsome grandson begins to skip a little making sure not to let go of my hand; I move faster to keep up. “Oooooh” he says, “I love treats!”  I laugh as we make our way around the corner onto the next block.  Above us, a spattering of white clouds paints the blue sky.