by Jennifer Tromble

Created on: March 15, 2009

Kindergarten isn't always the childhood mecca Crayola and Campbells would have you believe. When I was a little girl, my parents, devout Catholics, believed staunchly in the value of parochial education. Unfortunately, we had very little money, so their options in this were severely limited. Eventually they struck upon Our Lady of the Unpronouncable, a baroque building in the darker part of town where, said the unofficial slogan, "poverty and principle met." There would be no frills, of course (like Science, they found out later, and adequate flooring), but for fifty dollars a month and innumerable nights calling B.I.N.G.O., they could secure me a place in Sister Mary Wilma's kindergarten classif not, indeed, in the kingdom of God itself.

So, off I went. Unlike in the rest of the world, where parents of kindergartners hover in the hallways for hours, even days, in case of panic attacks and crying jags, parents at O.L.U. were encouraged to drop their children at the door. We die alone; we attend kindergarten alone. It was a sight to behold that first fateful day, blazer-bedecked five year-olds clinging to their parents' legs, wailing as if stabbed, while our principal, Sister Thomas, began the grim task of herding us into the building. Time after time, she'd almost get us through the door when some rogue faction would suddenly break from the group and make a run for it. It was a scene that repeated itself for months.

And no wonder. Whatever terror we felt outside was instantly dwarfed by what was awaiting us in the foyer: a life-sized statue of the crucified Christ, with an especially unnerving twistHis eyes were open. While the artist had probably sculpted them closed, someone at the school had decided to emphasize His all-seeing power with liquid paper and a bit of furniture stain. The effect was nothing short of grotesque. "That's Jesus," sister Thomas informed us. "He watches you all the time."

If he didn't, well, Mr. Joelles did. Mr. Joelles was our resident janitor and all around sentinel. He was the only adult male that we had on school grounds, whether from budget concerns or other concerns, I can't say. When he wasn't tinkering with the boiler or pouring sawdust on our vomit (which was copious, all things considered), he was perched on a folding chair inside the entrance doors, murmuring. In retrospect, he was probably praying, but since we didn't know that at the time (and wouldn't have understood it if we had), he ranked right alongside the creepy Jesus

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