The Eraser on a String

I remember the eraser before I remember the classroom.

It had a hole through the middle and hung from my neck on a piece of string so I would not lose it. I wore the dark school smock children wore then. My hair was messy, some teeth were still missing, and I had just arrived at primary school.

Nearby, I saw younger children playing.

They were drawing, moving around, and doing exactly the sort of things that looked like a sensible use of a morning.

So I walked toward them.

My mother stopped me.

My classroom was somewhere else.

I was going to first grade.

The direction of my education was corrected physically.

This amused me later because, before school started, adults had sometimes described two possibilities as if I were being asked to choose. One version involved games and drawing. The other involved lessons, learning, and beginning the serious work of growing up.

A child presented with these options does not require much time.

Games.

But the choice was theoretical.

On the first day, I tested the theory by walking toward the place where children were playing.

The system rejected my selection.

My mother turned me toward the correct classroom.

I do not remember what happened during the lesson that day. I do not remember the teacher’s first sentence or what was written on the board.

I remember the eraser hanging from my neck.

I remember the children playing.

And I remember that, for a few seconds, I had chosen a direction for myself.

Then an adult gently turned me toward another door.