Friday, February 15, 2002

On Playground Duty

After it became clear at my daughter’s public elementary school that the cafeteria and playground were woefully short-staffed, one mother devised a plan to cycle parents onto the playground for extra supervision. And after a few tours of playground duty, I have learned a thing or two.

For one thing, the amazing women who run the lunch scene – and they are all women – are worlds away from the lunch aides of my childhood. I remember them as very slightly feminized versions of Colonel Klink, with beehives straight out of “The Far Side” comics, barking phrases like “Not in MY cafeteria will you throw away your crusts, Missy!” Today’s lunch aids – pleasantly reminding children to make room for their neighbors at the table, to “do unto others” and other moral gems – they are like Emily Post and Mother Theresa and Wise Old Aesop all in one.

My first time on playground duty, I vowed to carry their karma out onto the frigid blacktop, bracing myself for what I thought might be crowds of young toughs – and keeping my eyes peeled for any rhythmic snapping of fingers that might imply a rumble was brewing. I have no excitement of that sort to report, happily. Mostly, being on playground duty is like watching that amazing science film in which the speeded-up photography makes a seedling explode into a blooming flower before your eyes. The students spill out of the brick building in waves, by grade, and over an hour and a half you have that time-lapse illusion of watching baby-faced Kindergartners morph into jack-o-lantern-smiled first-graders, and then into Chiclet-toothed second graders, and so on until they bloom into sixth graders, some of whom are already strutting their stuff in nearly adult bodies, and others who look like they haven’t been sent their first radio signal from far-off Planet Puberty.

And for all grades, except maybe sixth, when keeping hairdos in good shape starts to become important for both boys and girls, there is only one thing to do on the playground from the moment your feet hit the asphalt to the time the whistle blows for line-up. And that is: Run around like crazy and scream your head off in the classic game of Chase. For kindergartners and first graders, Chase takes the form of animals chasing other animals. Second graders are too cool to make kitty and doggie noises, so they just play bad guys and good guys, sometimes cut along gender lines, always shrieking with delight. Third, fourth and fifth graders play Advanced Chase, which is built around elaborate rules set by whoever has the most social power during that playground period. I swear I could hear the Enron executives of the future in the poorly rationalized exemptions to the standard rules: “No - this pole is a home base, too, if you touch it three times.” “The tire swing is a base for people whose names start with D.” “You can’t catch me if I have my hand on my zipper pull.” Nice try, Kenny Lay.

After 15 minutes, the kids line up to go back inside, chests heaving, hair flying, steaming jackets gratefully unzipped to the frosty air. And they have run off their demons.

At the end of my playground stints, my demons are still hanging around. (I picture them gaunt and spidery, drawn by Edward Gorey, legs casually crossed, smoking cigs, flicking ashes on my shoulders.) One demon is a book deadline whose hot breath I can feel on my neck right now; another is a stack of student essays to grade as thick as the thesaurus used to plump their pages. Who doesn’t have these metaphorical bad guys chasing us – the unfinished report for work, the overdue thank you note, a refrigerator emptied down to stained shelves and crusting condiments. How much better off would we be, if, in some form of primal scream therapy, we might playfully embody our demons as a pack of wild animals, or a gang of whatever sex of humans holds for us the most terror and appeal. A good 15 minutes of unbridled running about, screaming our heads off, until we collapse in exhausted laughter – wouldn’t we, too, be ready to fold our hands on our desks and face our work?

It all brings to mind the book, The Nurture Assumption, by Judith Rich Harris, which, a few years ago, deflated parents’ egos by claiming that playground and peer group play is where most child development happens. And all those agonizing hours you’ve spent with your tot on your lap, endlessly rereading the same picture book about the interesting world of heavy machinery? – not so much.

So, I’m trying to learn from what I see on the playground. On my most recent stint, some kids were trading Valentine candy conversation hearts near the teeter-totter. “Love ya.” “UR2 cute.” “Kiss me.” I sidled up to admire the scene. But even there my demons were breathing down my neck, as those darn candies started sounding a bit too much like work: “Email me.” “Fax me.” And there goes my blood pressure again....

For “Michiana Chronicles,” AAAAAAH! - there, I DO feel better! This is April Lidinsky

Broadcast by April Lidinsky on February 15, 2002
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