by Stephen Carney

Created on: March 03, 2009

Many people would expect a typical story of an Americanized start to an education filled with hall passes, yummy bag lunches, and school bullies whose voices sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks. However, this story's origin takes a trip south of the southernmost border of the United States. It is a place where the weather is gleefully sunny and the air seems to be made of mist. Travelers wander down to this location during long-needed vacations and create numerous tales of humor upon their return to the real world. This place is tropical and the echos of island drums reverberate the ear drums coaxing the hearer to stay just a little while longer. The islands of the Bahamas intoxicate journeyers with breathtaking scenery, delicious cuisine, and cultural interests too numerous to be counted.

In this story, the native is not able to taste these many ideals of the creative genius behind tourism advertising. His tale begins on the dirt floors of a home built with concrete blocks. The adventures of learning start almost intertwined with his ability to walk. Kindergarten started at the age of four years and was characterized by steely discipline, humble scholastic resources, and as much instruction as living on an island in a tourism capital can provide.

Memories of recess float into my head, few as they be, yet the ones that receive remembrance entail countless children racing around a playground of dirt, screaming, yelling, perhaps the occasional bump or two into the nearby friend. It was nothing short of chaotic. However, where have there ever been kindergartners who have politely, and sophisticatedly, floated around with perfect posture and pristine social etiquette during recess? As one can imagine, putting a halt to hundreds of four year olds can be a monumental task. Therefore, the faculty came up with a perfect plan. This plan would have to be etched into the brains of all of the kindergartners and would be implemented with the most intimidating of consequences for those students who were brave enough to be rebellious.

I don't know why I was careening down this repetitive stretch of the playground at this rate of speed, perhaps the young girl with pigtails needed my direct attention as soon as possible. Why was she running away? I am a nice . . . my legs lock as if they were immediately stuck in concrete. The dust around me billows through air signaling a figurative red light at which my vehicle had arrived. The sound wasn't extremely loud. It wasn't piercing, yet it was efficient enough to cut through hundreds of screams, shouts, cries, and laughs. It was the single blast of a whistle. We were supposed to act as if we were statues at that point. I never toyed with my destiny in being a prankster by testing the authoritative ones in moving the slightest millimeter of motion after that whistle had sounded. Even at four years of age I could feel the acute pain of an imagined paddle, or switch against my behind.

Only a few seconds after the first whistle sounded, seemingly eons required for all of my muscles to lock into one place, the second whistle sounded and my legs galloped toward the school building to get into line. It was almost as if someone had called out, "free Popsicles" from the classroom door because hundreds of little bobbing heads sped toward the building. Perhaps it could have been called "art" by a lot of frustrated single mothers out there, yet in our young minds the idea and effect of discipline seemed natural.

Or perhaps we weren't too accepting of the idea of being swatted on the behind?

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