Schools

The white frame school house with its bell,
the two-holer out behind,
looks little changed from early years.
Surrounded by peaceful fields,
it must have been a comfortable sort of school,
where generations of neighbors
recited their lessons, did their sums
and vied for roles in the Christmas pageant.

Mine was a city school, a heavy brick building
surrounded by a chain link fence
students were forbidden to touch. Within
the solid walls, we too memorized multiplication tables,
states and capitals, battles and dates. On Thursday mornings
we sang songs about Daisy and Clementine and bicycles
built for two, and if we behaved all week, we were allowed
to slide down the tubular fire escape on Friday afternoons.

But the neighboring city streets were an obstacle course
between school and home. Charles, the baby-faced
bully, taunted, “Kike, kike.” Big Bev and Joanne, mean-mouthed
and heavy-fisted, caused many a nightmare. The only safety
lay in flight. I was a scrawny little girl, but I was the fastest
runner on the block. I had a lot of practice.