Confessions Of A Potential Retard

For some reason, my mother didn't send me to kindergarten. My sister went. My younger brother would go. But for whatever the reason, my mother decided to keep me home.

So in order to be assigned to a first grade class, since I had no kindergarten record established apparently, I had to report to the school office for an oral exam. The woman administering the "test", a typical librarian-type: pointed rim glasses, sensible shoes, coffee stockings (yikes!), took me in the office and asked me one question. One question only.

"What's your favorite cartoon?"

That's it? I thought. I'm in. Too easy. Bugs Bunny! My man. Ace boon coon. Partner in crime. Do you want to know what my favorite episode is, too? Sheeit.

That was all going on in my head.

Like Einstein, I didn't start speaking when kids were supposed to speak. I kind of grunted, pointed at things, gestured with eye and head motions, but I didn't have the speaking thing down pat yet. At five, I was still trying to figure the verbal communication thing out. But she was waiting to hear an answer.

"Bugs...Bunny." I finally answered, pushing the words out with much effort.

I don't remember exactly what happened after that. I just remember my mother crying and being consoled by the other women in the office as we left the room. They were shaking their heads, pitying us both, patting her softly on the shoulder.

"It's what's best for the boy," they assured her. I was sentenced to the worst first grade class,
1 E-4.

1 E-4 was a learning ground for the city's future criminals. In that class we were taught shank sharpening; identifying 5-0, even when plain-clothed; there was a course, Pencil: Writing Utensil or Weapon? Typical first-grade stuff, or so I thought.

Every day I took the little, yellow, mini bus to what was called the Mini School across the yard from the regular elementary school where everyone else attended. There were like 9 of us on a bus that could seat 25 comfortably. Every day I sat next to the same girl - Lisa - and every day she smelled like salami. There was a kid name George that had a dribble cup attached to his chin and all he did was laugh and drool and ask Lisa for her salami. She didn't know what salami was and every day she'd tell him so. There was Charles, who was nicknamed "Trouble" even back then. He's been in and out of prison since we were 16. Eric, nicknamed Otty or Righty (his big brother, a future crackhead who would later be found dead of mysterious circumstances, was called Lefty) would be in and out of prison too and would be dead by 20.

Observation: when you're feared being retarded, people talk about you like you're not there.

"Does he like juice?" they'd ask around me.

And they'd talk slow and loud as if you're hard of hearing. "WOULD...YOU...LIKE...SOME...JU-ICE???"

But on the flip side, they were always extra encouraging for the smallest feat. Tying my shoe might get me a "Great job!". Putting on my jacket by myself might earn me a gold star. Counting to ten would get me a big, wet kiss on the cheek.

That was until I started speaking. Then I started acing all the tests. I knew my colors. I realized, without being told or helped that the round peg could only fit through the round hole; that cops, even out of uniform, have a certain walk to them; a certain smug air of authority giving them away for what they are. My first grade teacher, an Irish woman named Mrs. Evis, was forced to send me to the big school across the yard.

"But he looks so stupid!" she protested.

At the big school things would change. Now tying my shoe would be "So what?" Counting to ten would make them ask"Why'd you stop at only ten?" Putting on my jacket would earn me a "Yeah?...And?..."

A few years ago, I asked my mother about the whole thing. My brush with retardation. And all she'd say was "Oh that was a long time ago," and change the subject. "I hear the Yankees are building a new stadium."

My sister, four years older, should remember it. "Oh, I don't know...you'd have to ask ma about that. That's great about the new stadium though, huh?"

Figures. Stonewalled as usual. Going to have to do my own research. Maybe talk to an old classmate. Lookup a former teacher. Maybe visit the old Mini School.

In fact, whenever I get out of prison, it'll be my first stop.