[Cadaverous Pallor]

My apologies. This started out as a more exact Slice of Life essay but turned into something a bit different. I decided to post it anyway. -js

Every day, as I go to and from my parked car to the small bungalow library I work at in the mornings, I walk through the playground.

The playground was one of the odd things when I first came to work at an elementary school. It's a place that a 20-something without children wouldn't have a reason to visit - that is, since she graduated from her own elementary school. It was quite a shock to me at first. See, it's all the same.

There are tetherball poles and handball walls and basketball hoops. They play their versions of "Three Flies Up" and tag. There are swings and monkey bars and that weird black hard rubber stuff that probably wouldn't help if you fell off the metal jungle gym. They even have a burning hot slide. Yeah, this school doesn't have the cash for new stuff, so all that takes me back, easily.

There's painted hopscotch and painted four square and a painted map of the US. The kids make up their own games to jump from colored state to state.

The only big thing this place doesn't have that my school did is benches. No benches. If they're not allowed to play as a punishment for bad behavior, they sit on the line that is painted all the way around the playground and marked where each classroom lines up. Instead of being "benched", as we were, they call it "on the line". "Jose, that’s it, you're on the line at recess." For some reason this bugs me. I keep thinking, “isn't it basic human dignity in America to sit off of the ground?” And this is from someone that doesn't mind sitting on the ground in public at all, but hell, I'm not forced.

But that's the difference. The rest is the same.

The clothes are different, sure. There's a lot more pink than I remember. But the rest is the same. There are still girls with impeccable braids done by overly caring mothers alongside girls with wild hair obviously untouched by a comb that morning. There are the boys with sneakers trailing laces and t-shirts with cartoon characters on them. There are kids who always have dirty hands, making dirt castles where the grass can't grow. There are colorful backpacks and the less well-off kids with the cheap ones.

But wait, all that is surface stuff. I'm telling you, it's all the same. Look!

There's the girl who's smart in science that follows the boys around. There's the girl who wears dresses nearly every day, and you're not sure whether it's because she likes them or because her mom forces her. There's the girl who has a new outfit every month and a swagger to match. There's the horde of girls that follow her. There's the girl who ties back her hair and has scraped knees and is a little too boisterous to be popular.

There’s the boy that makes things up to try impress everyone. There’s the group of boys that wear basketball jerseys and talk about sports and almost nothing else. There’s the effeminate boy with the bracelet and a penchant for talking instead of playing. There’s the boy that doesn’t read well and hasn’t learned social skills, so he daydreams alone. There’s the boy that gets to watch adult movies and TV and tells everyone about the violence and sex. There’s the boy that sits on the line every day and doesn’t care – or does he?

The boys still chase the girls and the girls still run to the bathroom to get away, giggling. They still argue over whether the ball was over the line or not. They still chant when jumping rope. The younger kids still can’t make baskets at all (even on these lower hoops) but play basketball anyway. They never pass the ball. The older kids still hide out behind the bungalows so they can swear and talk about more taboo things. They also still forget that the librarian sits right by the back wall and will open the door to scare them away.

They still don’t know that the librarian isn’t mad and would never punish them, she just thinks it’s funny.

Just looking at their young, fresh faces makes me think I’m going to see the children I knew. Those kids never grew up for me – the ones that moved away, the ones that went to a different junior high. I half expect to see the bully and the princess and the slob of my own childhood. And when I encounter the current bully or princess or slob I almost want to say, I know you!

But it’s at that moment that the kid looks up at me and says “Good morning, Mrs. S!” They still use the same singsong voice for hellos, goodbyes, and thank yous. I get a lot of that. I know that when kids are not commanded to say hi but they do so anyway, you’re in pretty good stead with them. I get a lot of smiles and waves and other acknowledgements as I cross the black top. From the girls on the flip bars to the boys in line for handball, I know I’m not that hated nor feared. Even so, it reminds me that I’m no participant in the dynamics of the playground, but just an observer. Not a time traveler, just a historian.

Somehow, seeing my past verified by the present is comforting. Even when I witness the worst of the playground – ostracization, injuries, injustice – it still doesn’t hurt my view of it much. It proves to me that the trials I went through as a kid are not due to a flaw in myself. We are all subjected to childhood, playing one of the roles laid out for us. We all do our dance on the blacktop.

Nothing has changed.