20 March 2009
Mercedes was a precocious child. At the age of 22 months she shouted from the backseat of the car, “Look mom, a tri-ANG-le!” She was possibly noticing a YIELD sign for the first time although I cannot say for sure. When she was about two and a half I thought Mercedes was ready for school --- or maybe I was just ready for her to go to school. She was an industrious girl, very curious and self-directed. And she had a baby sister now --- wouldn’t she like to get away a couple of mornings each week, to hang out with other big girls and boys instead of always with her bedraggled mother, a slave to that demanding newcomer in the house?
The earliest memory I have of my own childhood is the day my mother asked me, when I was four, if I wouldn’t like to go to school like my big brother and sister did (by that time there were 2 younger brothers at home as well). I recall feeling excited at first then immediately cautious and suspicious --- was she trying to get rid of me? But I went for the bait and started kindergarten soon after. Thus began my rather rocky early childhood education, which was punctuated by so many, many absences due to fake illness that I landed in the hospital under false pretenses for a week of observation. The reward for my outstanding performance as an ailing child was many get-well gifts and lots of one-on-one attention from each of my parents, grandparents, godparents and family friends. The punishment was having blood drawn at all hours of the day and night, peeing in a bed-pan and being held in a ward with a lot of shrieking infants --- most of whom were awaiting repairs to their gaping cleft palates.
Of course, none of that was on my mind the day I took little Mercedes to check out the local Montessori school. We lived two doors down from Main Street in an idyllic small town on the Hudson River. Ours was a modest hundred-year old Victorian farmhouse, complete with white picket fence, a porch glider and towering hollyhocks in the tiny front yard. The school was housed in a much grander Victorian painted a cheery yellow, garnished with lots of white gingerbread, surrounded by a lush green lawn and yes, a white picket fence. We were welcomed at the front door by the director, headmistress, commandant of the nursery school. She was pink and plump and managed to coo in a way that left no doubt who was in charge here. We followed her into a small parlor --- notably away from the other children --- where she had set up a little easel, a large pad of white newsprint, 3 or 4 pots of paint, a big brush and a cup of water.
“Do you like to paint, Mercedes?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Then you can stay here and make some nice pictures while your mom and I go into my office to talk. Would that be okay?”
“Okay.”
“Just remember, Mercedes, that when you change from one color to the next you have to rinse out your brush. If you’re painting with red and you want to switch to blue, first clean the red paint off the brush. Then if you want to paint with green, clean the brush again before you put it in the green paint. You don’t want to mix up the colors, do you?”
“No.” was her timid reply.
We retreated to the principal’s charming office (how many parlors does a Victorian house have?) and chatted about the school, our village, Mercedes. I was psyched. We appeared to be a perfect fit! When we’d finished the interview I went to fetch Mercedes my face aglow with anticipation of the many joy-filled, carefree hours my darling would be spending in this wonderful haven. There she stood in a pool of sunlight on, I am imagining, an Oriental rug, exactly where we’d left her, her smock un-splattered, before a large, blank sheet of paper. None of us said anything except good-bye and thank you. Of course, we never enrolled.
Instead I sent Mercedes to a twice-weekly playgroup for toddlers supervised by the blessed Mrs. Timmons. Her house was a rambling, kid-friendly farmhouse in need of, but not soon to be receiving, a great deal of repair, updating and general TLC. Children and parents alike loved this place and I really had only one complaint about it, which I documented in Mercedes’ baby book ---
Life’s little ironies --- Mercedes goes to day care and gets germs which develop into a cold and so the next week she has to stay home from day care (we still have to pay the $35 “tuition”) and go to the doctor ($50) and so, instead of my getting a “day off” I pay $85 for a day that’s more difficult than usual!!!!!
What a whiner I was!
Around the same time Mercedes signed up for a gymnastics class. It was held in a huge space and as it was for very young children there were un-intimidating balance beams, tiny hurdles and several pits full of soft, foam balls for the tots to jump or dive into. When I was a child this would have been called a “tumbling” class --- but this was the late eighties and things were taken more seriously. These tykes were in training --- for what? The Olympics? And, they were expected to follow orders. Mercedes thought she was there to have fun. She often strayed out of line and if she happened to like some activity --- flinging herself into a ball-filled pit for example, she did it more than once. This, of course, was frowned upon and I watched from the bleachers as my intrepid daughter was time and again led back into line by one of the assistants. One day it was announced that the following Tuesday would be “visitors’ day” and we were allowed to invite grandparents, friends, anybody we’d like to come and watch a “performance.” Maybe dad could leave work early that day to attend. When class was dismissed the teacher approached me and suggested “I don’t think Mercedes should participate in “visitors’ day” considering that she doesn’t follow directions very well and she might disrupt the show.” Needless to say we skipped “visitors’ day” and every Tuesday thereafter.
Once when she was still small but already wise beyond her years I asked my daughter incredulously, “Mercedes, how do you know these things?” “Mom. I watch T.V.” was her matter-of-fact response.
Many years later I sat with Mercedes in the high school guidance counselor’s office. While my miserable daughter slumped, looking defeated, in her chair, I listened as the counselor suggested various options --- advanced placement classes, college level courses, independent projects. At sixteen Mercedes had already experienced and accomplished so much --- public school, Waldorf school, public middle-school, home-school, horseback riding, vaulting (this sport is like doing gymnastics on the back of a moving horse, so there, mean gymnastics teacher), Shakespearean acting, writing plays, excellent grades, amazing artistic feats and kick-boxing. Now, nearing the end of her second year of high school she had clearly had enough! I looked at my caged beauty with my heart outside my chest and when the counselor mentioned the California High School Proficiency Exam I said, “BINGO!” Mercedes straightened a bit in her chair. “That’s what we want, right, Mercedes? What does she have to do?”
It was a scary choice for parents of a brilliant young woman to make. Would it be a mistake to let her go through life without finishing high school? But from the day we met Mercedes we recognized her as a remarkable individual and whenever possible we allowed and encouraged her to make her own decisions. Taking the CHSPE was her choice and it was absolutely the right choice.
Today Mercedes will get on a plane in Los Angeles and fly to Hong Kong to represent Animation Magazine (where she is the Editorial Assistant) at the Hong Kong International Film and Television Mart. She’ll arrive tomorrow. When she returns to L.A., on the day before her twenty-second birthday, she will arrive at exactly the same time on exactly the same day that she left Hong Kong. But she will be a different person.
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