‘D’ is for Child

(Read Part One, "'K' is for Water Buffalo," here.)

A daunting part of a seven-year-old's day at Kindergarten 2 was the afternoon nap. We'd all get our light green bedrolls from nooks along one wall, unfurl them, and lie down. And there we'd remain for what felt like hours. I'd look around, watching activity in the room, with no possibility of slumber. There were the windows, the mounted mirror on the pillar, the two doorways, the teacher at her desk, the columns and rows of children wiggling on their mats, and the lucky sleepers. I noted how my classmates slumbered with their eyes still open a tiny slit. I turned this way and that. And then finally, finally, it was time to get up, to stow our bedrolls, and to get ready for an afternoon treat.

These treats, which I remember being served on the outside hallway, were nothing I had seen before. Some days, ladled out of the pot into our little bowls were slippery, chewy, electric-green segments floating in a milky concoction.* Other days, the floaters made me think of long, transparent worms. I'd balk inwardly before taking a bite, but there's something about being part of a system, amongst peers all doing the same thing, that will shut down any protest. I would have made a fuss at home. And then the sweetness of the dessert overtook me, and I ate each one of the daily offerings.

There were times during naps when our teacher was not at her desk. She was likely enjoying a visit with her colleagues, not at all concerned about lawsuits. The ensuing afternoon play time may have been the period of the day that offered the richest learning experiences—providing a form of discovery learning, I might say today. I listened and observed the free-for-all and drew my conclusions. And I participated somewhat, my cultural deafness and muteness holding me back. Who wanted to lie there and stare at the ceiling when you could get up, roam the room, talk to friends, whack other kids with pillows, and otherwise engage in the infinite possibilities?

The noise would grow to a roar, yet we were not worried. A small sentry posted himself at each door, looking first left, then right, vigilant to protect us from the punishment that would surely follow if we were caught out of our beds. When he said, "The teacher's coming!" (one derived meaning from context in these cases), we would all dive back into our places, acting as if we'd been angels during the authority figure's absence.

I learned one of my first Thai words from our doorway guards. Once in a while, these boys liked to prank us and announce the teacher's return when there had been no sign of her. They enjoyed the angst and the whirl of activity they could stir up, and would themselves swoop back into their spots just to make their ruse more convincing. Their gleeful deceptions meant that our messengers were losing credibility. So to signal a real emergency, the boys would add on, "Cheeng-cheeng!" This utterance occurred frequently enough that it got my wheels turning. "Cheeng-cheeng" was used in the same situation in which we would say, "E-lee" back in the village. "E-lee" meant "really" or "truly." So "cheeng-cheeng" meant "really." The whole declaration was, "The teacher's coming! Really! For real this time!"

Sometimes, when the teacher was present, she would deputize a couple of children to wander the room, rulers in hand. They could swat classmates who were not in compliance. In compliance with exactly what was not clear to me. What were the criteria for punishment? Was it being awake, talking, wiggling? The pair appeared to be dealing out whatever was dictated in the impulse of the moment. The vague system could have been more about favoritism than about classroom management; I noticed the appointees seemed to be the most healthy, attractive children. I myself probably wouldn't have minded being chosen for this duty. To be tapped by the teacher to get up, walk around, mete out punishment would have made for an interesting--and powerful--afternoon.

One day—and I don't know whether the teacher was behind her desk or absent when this happened—my sister took a brutal blow from the ruler. She was slumbering away (she'd conk out sometimes at home, too) when a little disciplinarian walked by, and the kids around him started to urge him to hit the farang. "She's the sone one," they said.

I'm not sure why I comprehended this exchange, except that time had passed and maybe I'd picked up more Thai from my neighborhood friends. Plus, adults said "sone" often enough around my sister that I understood it, associating the word with being mischievous or oppositional. Missy may have earned the adjective during her waking hours, but she most certainly did not deserve what came next. "Hit her!" the boys urged. "Hey, yeah--get her in the stomach." Where was I? Why did I sit and watch and not prevent this? I thought my five-year-old sister was sone, too, but today, I regret my role as a passive, half-satisfied spectator. I was a good girl in some respects, but proved less than noble when it came to my sister.

The cluster of boys continued with their instructions for the most effective wielding of the ruler against the supine little girl. "Hold it high and come at it like this. Yeah!" The child in charge of the ruler obeyed, cheered on by the enemies of the sone one, delivering a blow to one of the few children in the room who was actually napping. My sister woke up stunned, and began to cry.

I also cannot brag about my connection with a little girl in the room who had something going on with her mouth. Perhaps she'd had or needed surgery for a harelip, but to me, it was just different, unattractively gaping there below her wide eyes. I also didn't care for her head of thick, curly hair—naturally pretty and styled, I'd think today, but then it was as if she had cooties, and I quietly ostracized her.

On an afternoon when the Kindergarten 2 class was enjoying another unofficial break from their nap, I turned onto my back and noticed that girl standing at the mirror affixed to a nearby pillar. And she was experimenting with how it looked when she pushed out globs of foaming spittle. She stood still, unsmiling, staring at her reflection, gouts of spit forming. If I hadn't been repelled earlier, I certainly was now. And yet I understood what she was doing, knowing how often I gazed into the mirror in my bedroom, studying my face and the mesmerizing movements of my tongue. I watched her, viscerally fascinated at the ugly behavior of this curly-headed stranger, enjoying my contempt while recognizing myself in her. She noticed my attention, gave me a look that said she didn't think much of me, either, and went back to the mirror.

My favorite part of naptime happened twice, when my sister and I were spirited away to the older students' classes to witness, and perhaps model, a bit of English. A student would come to the front of the room, and the teacher would say, "She take off her sock." When the student complied, we were looked to for our nodding assent that the student had indeed taken off her sock. Although our role in these rare instances was small, I wished that every afternoon could have consisted of a tiny bit of lying down and a lot of visiting classrooms where we met everyone's approval with a little movement of the head. The nap requirement continued unabated, however. My sister and I were possibly not cooperative enough to hold this instructional support role on a regular basis, either out of bashfulness, lack of comprehension, or a smidge of plain old snobbery.

If naptime proved anything, it showed that children need constant supervision. With that lack, the only activity more challenging than naptime was when we were all released to use the bathroom facilities. I learned less from this than I did from the afternoon rest routine, but I did find out what it would take for my dad to intervene.

*I found this recently in San Diego, and it's delicious. Maybe the green element is some kind of rice pasta, but the texture is satisfying, and the liquid cold and creamy, some kind of coconut milk-based confection.