I arrived to my first class early and sat in the front row. I smiled at the students as they strolled in: Freshman. They all seemed to have made friends already and were a chatty group. Here and there I heard them wondering if anyone had heard anything about the instructor.

I had graduated from college a year prior and looked rather like a high school student still. When it was time for class to begin, I stood up and walked to the front of the classroom.

"Buenos días, clase. Soy Señorita Marshall."

The surprise on their faces was priceless.

School begins for me with a smell.

It is nothing to do with the building, or rooms, or cafeteria.

It's not the composition paper, books, or the plastic newness of gears like backpacks or erasers, nor that of freshly sharpened pencils, or even the assortment of markers that morph over the years from Crayola-to-MrSketch-to-Sharpie.

It also has nothing to do with grade level.

The odor is oddly the same, year after year, even now that I am out.

School begins with the smell of the first falling leaves, face flat to the ground-- the very beginning of decomposition.

08.07.2024

Drabble:FirstDayOfSchoolChallenge@Ferryman

For generations, I've been known for being sturdy and firm, then gradually losing my shape and wearing down. I recall that the classroom is filled with the clattering of pencils, murmurs, and whispers that the teacher pretends to ignore, the laughter and tears, the praise and punishment, the doodled and crumbled paper planes, the wandering eyes from the clock to the board, and the discreet passing. The cycle begins anew, yet another year. I'm confused. For them to learn and grow, why must I erode? Why must I become a touch so light, a pile of dust, dispersed and ignored?

Walking under the gothic arch of the entrance was surreal. My body, in the present, while the mind, years ago.

I first crossed this threshold as a gawky teenager, full of wonder and apprehension. The corridors unfolded, peeling off layers of time. I saw myself rushing, looking for the classroom and thinking: How am I ever going to be on time?

The teacher was sympathetic: You’re not late. No time like the present.

It was the balm I needed: Perhaps, it won't be all that bad.

It wasn't. My alma mater has been a friend, philosopher and guide, for life.

Following a summer of going to bed after the fireflies, the blare of my alarm startles me. Yet, I fall easily into the memory of routine. Throw on the clothes laid out the night before, brush my teeth, throw a granola bar into the backpack and trudge down the street to the bus stop. I kick rocks into the grate, waiting for the distant splash before I kick another. The bus screeches to a stop. I slip into a seat halfway back, resting my forehead onto the cool glass window, bumping alongside the potholes in the road. One more year.

Lily clutched her backpack, heart racing as she approached the towering school building. New faces surrounded her, a sea of strangers. She took a deep breath, remembering Mom's encouraging words.

The bell rang, startling her. Lily followed the crowd inside, searching for her classroom. A kind-faced teacher greeted her at the door, easing her nerves slightly.

As she settled into her desk, a girl with curly hair smiled at her. "I'm Emma," she whispered. "Want to be friends?"

Lily nodded, tension melting away. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. She opened her notebook, ready for a new adventure.

Beep! My hand reaches out in the dark, slamming shut the clock that has been ringing in my ear since what feels like forever. It's a chilly winter morning and I can feel the warmth on my face as sunlight filters in through the blinds. Looking around my room, my gaze falls upon the stationery pouch sitting on my desk, neon highlighters in pink and yellow spilling out. Three diaries in navy, emerald and maroon rest right next to it, waiting to be filled with words and scribbles over the next four months. First day of school, here I come.

The first day of school is rapidly approaching. I returned on August 1st and have been prepping in between the torture of all the PD days crammed in over the past two weeks.

I put the finishing touches on my room yesterday in anticipation for the return of the little people. I'm praying for all the students and teachers everywhere as they walk through the doors into a new year. I pray for the safety of all. I pray that the kids have a challenging positive learning environment. I pray that all the teachers remember their "why" for being there.

The first first day of school was terrifying and in 1968. I know I have to start school. My brother and sisters did, now I’m next. I got pep talks from them and encouragement from my parents. “You’ll learn so much.” “It’ll be fun.” “You’ll be okay.” But even with this support, the first first day of school presented the angst of separation compounded by the disquiet of the unfamiliar tightly wrapped with the fear of rejection.

Turned out, it was actually the first step in the long journey of shedding my adolescence to become the person I am today.

Elena had been excited to start Kindergarten so I was surprised when I picked her up that she was frowning.

“How was it?”

She looked at me worriedly “I didn’t learn how to read!”

I attempted not to laugh; only Elena would expect this.

“Well, very few children learn how to read their first day of school.”

“Linda can read.”

“She didn’t learn today. She has an older sister who probably taught her. My sister taught me but it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“Why?”

“She punched me when I didn’t get a word right.”

“Ouch.”

“Give it a few months.”