As part of YMP’s June newsletter, we continue to lift up voices from the Valley’s community of writers. The following story, by Anjali Kapoor-Davis (a Storytelling for Change Fellow), is a brave sharing of a memory from kindergarten, sparked by a single seemingly mundane moment. What is revealed is both painful and powerful.

Kindergarten

by Anjali Kapoor-Davis

My neighbors' daughters started Kindergarten this school year. It's an exciting time for them and it reminds me of when my son started school. Ajay had a great teacher, a gem, someone he still goes back to visit even though he towers over her in height. Mrs. Winter could have been called Mrs. Spring or Summer, she was warm, caring, and had more energy than I ever thought possible. I loved seeing her in action during my weekly visits to the classroom as a parent helper.

Mrs. Winter asked us to talk with our kids about our own family traditions and school memories as we approached the holidays. My family is originally from India and I was born and raised here. My husband is a 5th generation Californian and his roots go back to Ireland. So many rich traditions with Diwali, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Holi, and Easter to name a few. Our multicultural family has something to celebrate every month!  I wondered what the other parents would share with their kids. Ajay's class was so diverse. A family recently settled here, originally from Africa, a Sikh family with their son wearing a patka. I could see every shade in the crayon box. It felt good knowing that my son would fit in here, better than I ever did in Kindergarten.

One day when I picked Ajay up from school he said he need to use the bathroom and I waited outside. The older kids were also heading into the bathroom before recess. He rushed back out and looked concerned. It looked like the big kids were crowding him in the bathroom and he didn't like it. Suddenly I felt an odd sensation of déjà vu. I shook it off, gathered up his backpack and went out to the car. I asked him if he was okay, did he want to tell me something? "No", was his response so we went home. The next morning I suggested going into the bathroom with a friend, buddy system, someone to have his back. "Okay", he nodded as he went into the classroom.

Before going home I dropped by my brothers' house a few miles away; it was our childhood home and it held so many memories. He was out of town for a few days and I wanted to check up on the house. I parked the car in the driveway and walked by the enormous Cyprus trees framing the front windows. They looked like they could touch the sky. I could hear the schoolyard bell echo across the neighborhood as I looked through the chain link fence to see the kids scurrying to line up for class. I wondered if my brother just ignored the sound or learned to live with it since our childhood grade school was right next door.

I turned my gaze to my keys to find the right one. I remembered being a "latch key" kid; it was so long ago.  As I pushed the key into the lock I felt a chill, I let go and the keys dropped to the floor. Shaking my head I picked them up and reinserted the key. There it was again, déjà vu. Of course I had been here before, but this was different. I closed my eyes trying to search the recesses of my brain for a clue. Suddenly I felt it, warm and wet running down my legs. I opened my eyes quickly, what was that? There was nothing on my legs. I closed my eyes again and could hear the sound of children's laughter and a weird squishing sound. Looking down I noticed that a little water had collected under the doormat. Still perplexed by the feeling of something familiar and yet distant, my mouth fell open as I was flooded with the memory.   

I had fumbled with the key before, panicked that I wouldn't be able to get the door open in time. Panicked because I had to pee, really, really bad. I dropped the key before too, and then it happened, the flood of urine running down my leg. I peed my pants more than once at this door. "Oh you poor kid!" I wish I could have gone back to give her a hug. "Why didn't she use the bathroom at school?" Why Didn't  I use the bathroom at school?

I made my way inside and walked into my old bed room. I sat on the floor and closed my eyes again. I wish I could ask her what happened. I thought about Michael and Jonathan, my only friends. Michael stuck out because he was too white with freckles and red hair . Jon stuck out because he was black. Me? I was the only brown girl. The other kids called Jon and I, the "N" word. He told me what it meant. How many times had he heard it? I was five and I was dealing with this level of racism. How could five year olds know what that meant and use it so effectively? Five year olds can't be racists, right? This was taught to them by their parents and grandparents. Wow, that's a hell of a family tradition, a Heritage of Hate.  

Why didn't the teachers stop it? I couldn't answer that question but I knew that my Mom would have more pieces to the puzzle so I headed to my parents' house next. "What do you remember about my Kindergarten teacher?" I asked her over a cup of chai. "I remember when she called me and said that you needed to be in a different class, that you were slow, retarded was the word they used back then. She jumped to a lot of wrong conclusions."  My Mom went on to tell how the teacher had been asking students about different animals, "Where do you see a dog? Where do you see a monkey?" I answered the one about the monkeys with "in the garden", which led to a lot of laughter from the class. But monkeys were in the garden, in my home for the past few years in India. I also said that the camel brought the milk to our house, which it did, with the guy riding it, in India. So for those reasons she thought I had a mental deficit. Hmm, with that mindset my teacher wasn't going to be of any help on the playground either. My Mom gave the teacher a piece of her mind on the phone and after a "reeducation" by my Mother, the teacher did invite her to come to the classroom for a show and tell about India. My Mom brought clothes, cooking utensils, and handicrafts, as well as a map to show where India was located. Smart lady, my Mom. I realized I had some work to do myself.

 Over the next few days I went through old pictures and drove by my old school again to see what else I could shake loose from my memory. It was like using a TV antenna to tune in my past. One thing became painfully clear; I never used the school bathroom because there I would be alone, no Michael and no Jonathan to have My back. There was no way to escape. By five I figured out the best way to stay safe was to hold it. I never told my parents because I was a good Indian girl, I kept quiet and minded my manners. No one ever talked about things like this in our community. We held it in. I quickly learned to assimilate into the American society, after all I was born here, I am an American, right?

I sat down with Mrs. Winter and shared with her what my mother had done for me in Kindergarten. I mentioned that Diwali was less than two weeks away and asked if she would be open to having me share something from India with the kids. She loved the idea and together we planned for it. I arrived at school with a large garment bag filled with clothes, a bag of cooking utensils, handicrafts and Indian sweets. Mrs. Winter already had the map out and was showing the kids where India was located. I opened the garment bag and all of the kids oohed and aahed over the vibrant colors. I pulled out a folded cream and pink sari and unfurled all six yards of it. Mrs. Winter smiled and asked "How do you wear it?" I asked if she would like to try it and she nodded. After a few minutes of pleating the fabric, draping it over her shoulder, and tucking it in around her waist, I realized I had a captive audience. Not a word was said during the time it took to dress her in the sari. "What do you think?" I asked the class. "Beautiful, so pretty, I love the colors, you should wear that all the time!" were the responses. Then, one little boy said, "So they're just clothes? It's still Mrs. Winter, just in a different dress?" "Yes, it is," I nodded. "She's still the same person no matter what she's wearing" "Ooooohhhhh" said the class. It was as if a collective light bulb went ON in the classroom. I couldn't fight the hate when I was five but I could fight the ignorance and racism like my Mom did for me by educating and disarming them, hopefully before it started. I didn't realize that my presentation had run long and that there were half a dozen parents in the back of the room. When I looked up I saw the smiles on their faces. "I'd like to come in and talk about Africa" said one Mother. "I'd like to talk about Argentina" said another.

It was the perfect way to celebrate Diwali, a symbolic victory of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance, and good over evil. I smiled back at them and thought, my work here is done, for this year anyways.

Anjali Kapoor-Davis is a Storyteller, Playwright, and Musician. Born and raised in Fresno, Anjali graduated from Clovis West and earned a BA in Music from U.C. Davis.  After moving back to Fresno with her husband and son, she took on the roles of robotics coach, Boy Scout troop treasurer, choir Mom, and also served on local non-profit boards. Anjali is also a thyroid cancer survivor and started a thyroid cancer support group in Fresno to raise awareness for this disease. The Yonsei Memory Project, Playwrighting at FCC, and CSU Summer Arts have helped Anjali develop an outlet for creativity and healing through writing. She loves spending time with her family, all animals, the arts, baking, and laughing.