Not too long ago, one of the boys I tutor was kicked out of third grade. He’s a sweet kid, but school administrators felt it would be best if he were at a school that could better accommodate his behavioral needs. It was a strange and difficult process, and one in which I had no control. I was able, however, to console the boy’s mother by telling her that I, too, was kicked out of elementary school. Once upon a time.
My first grade career began at Oxford Elementary, a K-2 school tucked snugly among the Berkeley hills. We had just moved back to the Bay Area from San Diego and were living at my grandmother’s house. Each morning my grandma would walk me to school, three short blocks that held all the mysteries of childhood. Unseen dogs barked from backyards; over-ripe avocados drooped low over a stained sidewalk; my grandma’s hand and the bright, carefree screams of the playground guided my way.
School both bored and fascinated. The boredom was confined to the classroom, where we learned how to draw stars and write the letter “o” properly. The lessons lacked excitement and energy, and I found myself constantly yearning for the freedom and thrill of recess. There are few adult joys that stand against this rapture. It is a frontier, with games, chase, slides, the license to yell. Girls became girlfriends in exchanges like this:
“Will you be my girlfriend?”
“Okay, but just ‘til lunch.”
For us boys, adventure beckoned from everywhere. Behind the large bush we’d swap baseball cards and lunch items, concealing from our teachers what we assumed to be illegal activity. Loosely organized baseball and football games dominated lunch. The overgrown ivy enveloping the far corner of the yard held innumerable secrets and forgotten tennis balls. I was on top of the world.
And then came the pee contest. Word had spread that I could pee farther than any other boy in the first grade, and as customary when such allegations were presented, someone challenged my standing. The contest to decide who would lay claim to this title took place in the boys’ bathroom, at a long, trough-like urinal.
The entire male half of the first grade crowded in. My opponent and I stood at opposite ends of the metal urinal, preparing ourselves, while our classmates pressed in around us. The bigger boys jockeyed for space alongside the trough – the pee contest equivalent of courtside seats. After some rustling, a silence settled over the bathroom.
One of the boys urinal-side started the clapping and it caught on instantly, a loud, rhythmic beat that gave our humble contest a gladiatorial feel. My opponent and I sized each other up. In the gray chasm between us, several urinal cakes lay scattered. Though rules were never discussed, we both knew how victory would be determined: by comparative level of dryness.
The de facto referee screamed “Go!” and the clapping changed to screams and shouts. The throng of boys pressed further in and, fearless and without compunction, we commenced.
I’d like to say that it was close, that this forgotten boy from my childhood had dueled admirably, that he had put up a decent and formidable fight, but I can’t. I destroyed him. By the time our teachers finally discovered and disbanded our bootleg match the damage had been done. The kid was soaked with urine and shame, and I was in big trouble.
I considered it a kind and loving gesture that my mom never brought it up. Life up to that point had been a series of misadventures, and “conversations” regarding my behavior were a frequent part of my existence. It seemed a clever parenting tactic to highlight my bad decision by the absence of discussion, and it worked. We quietly moved to Marin, where I started up at a different school and was careful not to mention my micturatorial abilities to my new classmates. When they asked why I had changed schools, I told a convincing lie.
I completed my academic career without peeing on anybody else or getting kicked out of any more schools. Though I omitted the cause of my leaving, the mother of the boy that I tutor was relieved to know that my expulsion from elementary school hadn’t permanently damaged my academic career or my self-worth. It felt good to be a source of hope and commiseration, especially during a time of such trial, and I was glad that my missteps could be of some value to the family of the boy.
Recently I had my mom over for dinner and was catching her up on my work. By the second glass of wine I got around to my conversation with the distraught mother.
“I told her about how I was kicked out of Oxford, and that really put her at ease. I didn’t mention the pee fight, obviously.”
My mom laughed and picked up her chardonnay.
“Honey, you weren’t kicked out of first grade. We moved because I wanted you to go to school in Marin.” She took a long sip and looked at me quizzically. “But what’s this about a pee fight?”
The Misorganized Mind 