FROM A CHILD’S

PERSPECTIVE
August 25, 2016 by Guest Author — Leave a Comment

by Susan Carpenter

The tension around the dinner table is palpable. My

father sits to my left closest to the electric ice box and to
the kitchen door which leads to the common hallway. My
mother sits opposite him nearer the stove and the
windows overlooking what I wish was a courtyard but
what is, in reality, an alley between the two back wings of
the apartment building. It is covered with so much soot
and coal dust that even the hardiest weeds refuse to
penetrate its surface. I sit at the table’s open drop leaf, a
full plate before me. Daddy’s always telling me to act
like a young lady, but I’m only five. I don’t know what a
young lady is supposed to act like. I’m aware that I’m
the cause of the tension tonight. It makes my stomach
hurt.

Every dinner with my father is an unspoken battle of

wills. Most rules are clear: your food to your mouth, not
your mouth to your food; elbows off the table, napkin in
your lap, chew with your mouth closed; and don’t pick at
your food. Other rules are less obvious. When the food
in my mouth has been chewed to the consistency of paper
pulp, I’m expected to swallow it. I wipe my mouth with
my napkin depositing the inedible mass therein. Later I
will ask to be excused to the bathroom where I will empty
my napkin as well as whatever else has accumulated in
my mouth into the toilet. Nothing I do tonight seems to
please my father.

The kitchen smells like my mother’s dry, overcooked

pork chops and cinnamon applesauce. I eat my meal in
my usual fashion, beginning with what I like best, and
leaving the worst for last for last hoping I won’t have to
finish. It never fails to irritate my father. I can feel the
change in the atmosphere when he is displeased with me
as he is now. I am dawdling, as my parents call it, over
my now cold mashed potatoes. My Father tells me a
story about a little boy who ate his food like me, one
thing at a time. This, he tells me, is how they discovered
that the boy was retarded.

I don’t want to be retarded. I always knew there was

something wrong with me. I know that I don’t easily fit
in, that I’m more comfortable with most adults than with
kids my own age. Now I know why I don’t fit in: I’m
flawed. I don’t like the word “retarded,” so I will keep
this my secret, too painful to put into words.

Lying in bed surrounded by all my stuffed animals, I try

to go to sleep, but I keep hearing the word “retarded.”
It’s in my head and It’s keeping me awake. I try to make
it go away. It doesn’t work. I try to pretend I’m a
princess and a prince will come and rescue me. That’s
how I always fall asleep. But deep inside I know no
prince will ever come for me because what prince will
ever rescue a flawed princess when he has so many others
to choose from.

I guess I must have fallen asleep. My mother’s telling me

it’s time to get up. The lingering smell of my father’s
bacon and eggs floats all the way from the kitchen.
Mommy wakes me only after my father leaves for work
so I can enjoy my breakfast alone with her. My eyes
open and light peeks in from the sides of the window
shades. It’s a school day, but I’m still sleepy. Then all
of a sudden, I’wide awake and cold. I shiver as I recall
my father’s awful words last night. “Retarded.”
Everything feels different now. I’m different, but I’m the
same me I always was. It doesn’t make sense.

I walk to Kindergarten beside Joey’s mother. I like

talking to her. It’s her turn to take us. It’s not far, but we
have to walk in front of Superior Spring. It’s a huge brick
building where they work on really big trucks, and
sometimes the trucks back up across the sidewalk. It’s
very dangerous. The other kids are in front of us. I don’t
talk to Joey’s mother. After last night, I don’t know what
to say.

Kindergarten only reinforces my awareness that I’m

different. My school room is at the end of a hallway. It’s
small with tiny wooden chairs lined up behind long
tables; but then we are tiny as well. Louise is sitting in
front of me chewing on one of her braids. For some
reason I don’t like her but can not remember why.
Perhaps it’s because one day in class she threw up all
over her table. I remember the smell, like something left
in the ice box too long.

Miss Harris is my teacher, an old lady by my childhood

standards, and very strict. I don’t think she likes little
kids. We never play or have fun in her room. I mostly
remember nap time. I stopped taking a nap when I was
two. Every day, despite spending only half a day in
school, Miss Harris tells us to put our heads down on our
tables. It’s nap time. The first time she said this, I told
her I thought it was a childish thing to do. The next thing
I know, she’s sitting in my little chair and I’m standing,
her hands clutching my arms. I don’t remember what she
said, but I know it wasn’t pleasant.

My other really bad memory from that particular room

(other than Louise throwing up) occurs when we’re
learning the alphabet. I already know all the letters. Last
week Miss Harris told us to draw something that begins
with the letter “P.” When I’m done, I look up and she’s
staring at my drawing. She asks me what it is. I think she
hopes I’ve gotten it wrong. She’s like that. She doesn’t
like me. I tell her it’s a Pink Lady, something my mother
drinks when we go out to dinner. After all, it’s a cocktail
glass and I colored it pink. Miss Harris (everyone says
she’s an old maid) is not happy with me, not at all.
Everyone turns to stare at me. My face is hot. I want to
disappear. She must know my secret, my flaw.

Mrs. Martin is the other kindergarten teacher, younger

and prettier. I adore her. Her next-door classroom is at
least twice as big as ours. We sometimes go there to play
with the kids in her class. There are two playhouses on
the side of the room, one is a little kitchen with a stove
and a refrigerator. I want to play with the make-believe
food and the pots and pans. I wonder how many times
her class gets to play with them. There are lots of other
toys as well. We have none in our room. The difference
in the classrooms is unfair even to a five year old.

Mrs. Martin is a cheerful woman. She has fun teaching,

seems to enjoy each moment with her small herd of
students. There’s laughter there. We can hear it from our
little room where silence reigns.

Off the main room of Mrs. Martin’s class, there’s a little

room where musical instruments are stored. There are
triangles and wooden sticks and tambourines and bells.
We’re standing in a circle, singing, and playing our
instruments. My stomach is itchy. I don’t have my
overalls on. The school says I have to wear dresses now.
So I pull up the skirt of my dress and start scratching.
Miss Harris is looking at me. In front of everyone, she
tells me to pull my dress down, says it’s wrong to lift up
my skirt in public. Everyone is watching me. She is
reprimanding me in front of both classes. I want to cry.
It hurts so much. I wish I could sit down and cover my
face with my skirt. No one would see me and I wouldn’t
have to see their faces. I’d breathe into my hands and the
yellow cotton of my dress would get warm, and then I
would be safe.

This is the third time Miss Harris has made everyone turn
to stare at me. This is the third time I’ve been humiliated,
always by her. She makes me feel naked. My flaw has
been exposed for everyone to see. My father is right: I
am retarded. Parents don’t lie about things like that.

Filed Under: 2016 5th Anniversary Contest

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