“Levi’s or Wrangler?”
The first day of second grade was supposed to be unnoteworthy. Most kids have gone excitedly to the store with their parents to buy supplies from a list given to them at a meet-the-teacher conference. And the latest, up-to-date outfit was always more straightforward when you were that young, so school shopping for new threads was usually deemed a success for even the poorest kids. I certainly didn’t recognize nor care about the difference between a pair of Wranglers and Levi’s in second grade. It was all about the thrill of accumulating cool new things, anticipating a new year, and meeting new people (at least for most kids who weren’t me).
Throughout my academic career, I moved every two years or so and was not excited to meet new people. I was an introvert. It had just taken me two years to establish the last set of friends I had, so starting over was ominous. However, my shopping experience didn’t trigger fear or anxiety like it does as an adult. It was as exciting as ever, and I raked in some of Sears’s best.
My dad, a magazine publisher for Texas Monthly then, had his suit and tie on and took me to school on his way to the office. The experience to this point was nearly forgettable until we crossed the threshold of the school’s glassed double doors together. An ominous feeling came over me. The smell of the distant cafeteria preparing food mixed with the industrial carpet needing replacement years ago was all too familiar. I associated it with only one thing – The stress and terror of grade school.
“Have a great first day, bud,” my dad said as my teacher met us at her classroom door. My dad released my hand as she took it into hers and began leading me inside the bustling room full of colors and excitement. I took it all in for about five seconds before becoming overwhelmed. I turned and bolted out the door after my dad, who had approached the same glass doors we’d entered by then. I was crying and yelling his name. He must have heard me. He also must have known me well enough to anticipate this event. He pretended he didn’t hear me and picked up his pace as my newly indoctrinated teacher gave chase.
I hit the glass door just as my dad exited, turned, and pushed it shut. Surely, he’d hoped my teacher would have caught me before then. She hadn’t. He held the door from the outside while I begged him to let me out – sobbing and screaming like a, well, first-grade girl. His head was turned away so as not to witness the pain and angst I exuded through my red, tear-laden face. I pushed and pulled that door with all I had until my teacher caringly pulled me back and tried to give me comfort and assurance that she would take care of me.
I still passed the second grade. We learned cursive, spelling, advanced addition and subtraction, and performed classroom experiments that helped us understand how to give detailed directions. After that first day, I succeeded without shedding another tear. I remained stressed and anxious for a period, but it was easier to make friends back then, as my homeroom class was consistent all year round.
Another distinct memory of that year was the 1976 Presidential election, which pitted incumbent Gerald Ford against newcomer Jimmy Carter. Second graders are not exceptionally knowledgeable and certainly not hip to current political issues, and I was no exception. One Friday afternoon, my teacher informed us we would hold a “Class Election” the following Monday. Somehow, despite the lack of a deep understanding — or any understanding, for that matter — of issues, the class seemed excited. I’d seen Ford on television. I wasn’t sure what he stood for, but I certainly would have bought whatever he was selling – as I would have for Carter had I been more aware of him.
I went home and told my parents I had this election on Monday and was voting for Ford. I don’t think the idea was for the students to ride a hunch or intuitive sense based on nothing. I am pretty sure my teacher expected us to have a productive conversation with our parents, who certainly would have more to say about such an important event. But, since I’d already blurted out who my pick was, the conclusion was foregone, and I simply hoped to be on the winning team.
The fact that I was the only kid in my entire class who voted for Ford is less important than the fact that everyone cast a vote based on whom their parents were to vote for. The 1976 presidential candidates discussed specific solutions and strategies regarding relatively complicated subjects. There was no way we, students learning how many hundreds are in 462, would be intelligent enough to discern the information they shared. So, the kids in my class regurgitated their parents’ voting habits, and I, the lone exception to the rule, rooted for the “dude in the coolest uniform.”
Those were such complicated times. It seemed almost unfair that not everyone could understand the issues, let alone the solutions. I know I certainly couldn’t! Fortunately, in 2024, we’ve managed to flip that old process on its head. We can finally rest assured that only surface-level, elementary information is communicated (said) so that we, as second graders, can finally understand who these candidates truly are.