The Merry-Go-Round

Diary:

The merry-go-round is picking up speed. I, having decided to get dizzy for the first time continue pushing it around, one foot on the ground, another on the bumpy, rough metal plate of the base, and one hand holding on for dear life. Almost falling off, I land, both feet on the ground, my body not knowing which way to turn and my mind revolving still with the merry-go-round. I look in the direction of the nursery school, for me it was my prison; I lived just across the street. I had a home. Why couldn’t I go home? It seemed rude to keep me in such a place. It was the first intrusion of society and practical reality in my life. The other day, while swinging alone, recess long over, I found nine dimes buried in the sand beneath the rough rubber saddle of my swing. Some idiot teacher came out and I told her of my treasure, she said they weren’t really mine and that all the other kids had long ago gone back to their cells, I felt no affinity towards her. She was to me a non-entity, as I was to her. She was an alien I couldn’t relate to. She was the one who had criticized me for teaching the ten little Indian song to another toddler. She said it was a racist song. I thought she was the racist. Thought she was weird to tell you the truth. I was only four years old, our lips were stained purple with the pomegranates we picked from a tree by the fence that separated this place from my apartment. Those are the only two things I remember of these 1960s politically correct kindergarten aides. She only mumbled things and then disappeared back into the sanctuary of an enclosure. I think she was afraid to be outside … to be free, to have a character and a personality. She wanted all the kids indoors. She only felt comfortable there, I believe. Even at the age of four, I was enough of an individual to put off people like her. She didn’t like me. She was anal retentive and wanted to retain kids.