Silence

"The Piano Bench"

Kindergarten is my first memory of being singled out, not by other children, but by the one person who was supposed to lead by example, my teacher, Mrs. Desmond. On a day that started out like all others, it was the time of day when she would read to us. I remember taking my place on the floor, tucking my dress neatly under me as I carefully sat down on the small pillow made of a knobby feeling fabric the color of a robin’s egg. As I crossed my legs, I gently smoothed out my dress covering my legs “just like a little lady,” the way our teacher had instructed. There was a buzz of excitement all around me as the rest of the kids took their places in the circle, anxious to hear the day’s story. We always had story time gathered in front of the straight-backed wooden piano in the corner of our classroom near the bright sunny window that overlooked the playground. Once everyone was gathered, Mrs. Desmond joined us, ceremoniously walking through the space she had taught us to leave in the circle for her to do so. Tucking her long yellow flowered dress beneath her, she sat down on the piano bench and settled in. I waited anxiously for her to tell us the name of today’s book. As she turned the book over, I caught sight of The Gingerbread Man. My favorite! I was instantly bouncing in my seat waiting for her to begin. Mrs. Desmond looked my way and I remembered how she liked us to sit still. I tried my best. As the story unfolded, my excitement overtook me and I started talking aloud about what was going to happen next. I loved this story! In my reverie I must not have heard her tell me to be quiet. Suddenly, in the midst of reading, her pleasant story voice suddenly disappeared. Then, she just stopped reading. In the blink of an eye, she was off her seat and coming towards me. All fell silent. In one fell swoop, she pulled me out of the circle – my skinny frame offering no resistance as she grabbed my arm. Across the floor I sailed, my body sliding on the linoleum, heading towards the piano. I saw the other kids pull back, their eyes wide with fear. Before I knew what was happening, she began to push me under the piano bench. My head hit the underside while at the same time my bony knee banged into the wooden frame, sending a jolt of pain mixed with fear through my tiny body. I was shaking like a leaf and began to cry. Leaning down towards me her eyes wild, she pointed her finger in my face and told me not to make another sound. I felt her sit sat back down on the bench. I swallowed hard and brought my hand to my mouth to stifle any sound. I laid there shivering with fear as I stared at the back of her legs. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop the hot tears from rolling down my face, puddling on the floor under my cheek as I stayed in place, curled up in a little ball. I’ll never forget the sight of the seams in her hosiery nor the back of her black pumps. Her feet were so close that the smell of shoe polish filled my nose. I held myself as still as a stone for fear that any movement might cause me to bump into her legs. My eyes were riveted on the faces of the children that I could still see. They looked blank and fixed with fear, surely a reflection of my own. Not a sound escaped from anyone. Mrs. Desmond continued with the story, right where she left off without skipping a beat. After the first few words, the only thing I heard was my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. In what was by any definition cruel, Mrs. Desmond made me stay under the bench, even after story time had ended. I lost track of time praying for her to let me come out again. My body felt stiff and sore but I still wouldn’t budge an inch for fear of what wrath might come my way next. Finally, I saw her black pumps making their way across the floor towards my tiny prison. In a harsh voice that I didn’t recognize, she told me to come out. I carefully unfolded myself as I slid out from under the bench, my beautiful dress crumpled. Dutifully, I smoothed it back down as best I could and limped over to my seat. I sat there as quiet as a mouse. Somehow even at this young age, I knew that “little Debbie” wasn’t in the room any longer. I had gone somewhere deep inside where it didn’t hurt anymore. As I grew older, I would perfect this ability. It became my salvation. Mrs. Desmond never taught our class again.