“It’s hard to choose a favorite among so many great tracks, but “The Greatest Love of All” is one of the best, most powerful songs ever written about self-preservation, dignity. Its universal message crosses all boundaries and instills one with the hope that it’s not too late to better ourselves.” –Patrick Bateman
I’d never “camped out” for anything before. I had waited in a long line outside of Music Plus for Stones tickets once a long time ago, but the communal bonding and shared mania of waiting for days to purchase an iPhone, get student tickets to a NCAA game, or be one of the very first to be massively disappointed by The Phantom Menace had been denied to me.
All that changed about a month ago. I took the day off of work and set the alarm for just after 3:00 a.m. My buddy Charlie was going to pick me up at 3:20 so we could get a prime spot in line. I had considered making it an all-nighter, maybe closing the Bayshore Saloon after a night of NTN and just taking a cab to get an even better position but wanted to be lucid if the need arrived. I dressed for the cold and packed a portable DVD player along with the following films: Apocalypse Now Redux, Blade Runner, and True Romance. Charlie brought these fantastic reclining chairs; actually, the term lawn chair doesn’t begin to do them justice, since they allowed you to stretch out and feel as if you were floating (if you were able to maintain your balance just right and could manage to remain perfectly still).
There were four people ahead of us. We greeted our fellow waiters, aware that we likely knew some of them but were unable to see anything in the dark of the early morning. The conversation among our then-anonymous selves centered on what time the first guy had got there and how many times various people had gone through this process. The “winning time” for those keeping track for next year was 2:30 a.m. It turned out that the woman in the fourth spot was a high school classmate of mine. We squinted at each other in the dark and said hello, she being a pro at this, having done it twice before with this being her last time.
Did we then gather stones and draw slips of paper from a wooden box?
No, I was there to register my kids for kindergarten. Our neighborhood (I shy away from wanting to claim it as my neighborhood, but read on in case you have any doubts as to the depths of my delusion) has enacted this bizarre ritual for years. There are two different time slots at our kindergarten, and registration is on a first-come, first-served basis. So as to ensure that your child is placed into the correct class, you will rise before dawn and do your part to prove that your children are indeed our future. My kids needed to be in the first session. The morning session is the only one that would do. If I didn’t get my kids into that session, if I didn’t do what it took, no matter the cost, well, there’s no telling what could happen to them, right? That’s why we were all there. We would even snicker about the idea of someone bothering to wait for the afternoon session. It just wasn’t done. Oh sure, we knew of parents who enrolled their kids in the late classes; it was fine to do so, since the teachers were the same after all, but the implied stigma could be spelled out to me by the line of lawn chairs that spread out beside me as those parents who just didn’t care enough finally arrived to take their spot in this most precious queue.
Let me add two things: I went to this very elementary school and am now a public school teacher myself. We didn’t have to do this when I was five years old (I laughed to think of my Dad out here, but then I worried that I may have been consigned to those late classes after all. It all makes sense now!), and I have few illusions as to the ratio of importance between the particular teacher a student has versus the entire support system they have outside of the classroom, but here I was anyway, gloating inwardly that I had a lock on three of those first thirty spots by showing up when I did. Note the significance there–I was the sixth person waiting in line, after my neighbor Charlie, but was taking up slots #7-9 with my oversized brood. The guy who was second in line has twins, very sweet girls who go to our preschool, but here I was taking up a sizable percentage all on my own. When parents arrived, they would do a head count down the line and grunt in satisfaction only to have the true numbers read out to them. “Twins, huh? Triplets? That guy has triplets?” I’m used to being “the triplet guy.” It has and will continue to define who I am to a large extent. But this time it seemed less an amusing oddity and more of a freakish irritant. Grim faces under baseball caps moved toward the back of the line as they pulled out their cell phones to tell their wives that this sudden and unexpected onslaught of multiples could put a crimp in their kid’s college plans.
My immediate line-mates were nice. We could afford to be–we were all in. I decided against my films because it was more of a mixed crowd than I had anticipated and my kids will have enough problems with labels without dealing with their dad being the guy who listens to the Dennis Hopper monologue on the genealogy of the Sicilian people. The sun finally rose, which was nice because it was freezing. Now the regular school staff arrived to work. I can guess what they made of us, but they had seen it every year, so they gave us a tight smile and went about their business. Then the students began to be dropped off. They looked much less sure and who can blame them? Some neighborhood parents arrived too, pushing their strollers with their toddlers and laughing with us that they had been in our shoes once before and would be again next year or the year after. Once again, my special circumstances were noted. This would be my only appearance at this event, as I was always one and done.
The woman from the PTA, very friendly and professional, set up a table with doughnuts and coffee and took our immunization cards to be copied. It was around then that my wife, Adriean, arrived to take my spot in line. She had taken the kids to preschool and the proud papa, the great hunter, could now go and enjoy his much deserved sleep. I was glad to help my children pass this crucial test and, for as much as I want to mock myself, did feel a sense of accomplishment when I looked at the long line stretching down to the building where I had gone to sixth grade knowing that I had delivered for the family.
What exactly it was that I gave them I’m still trying to piece together. I know it’s silly, but so many of the choices that we make for our kids are similarly insignificant until they somehow mean everything. I hope they like the morning class. It’s very likely that I did it more for my self-concept of what a parent should do or be than for any value that they’ll get out of it. But I would and will do it again if it offers even the slightest chance at their potential happiness. I’m the triplet guy. It’s what I do.
Loved it, Ruben.
I went to afternoon kindergarten. It never occurred to me that the schedule might be responsible for a lifetime of sloth and underachieving.
That scene between Dennis Hopper and Christopher Walken is one of the greatest scenes in all moviedom.
What an awesome post. You are one of those people who make living in the burbs seem a little more adventuresome, and I thank you for this. I also commend (as if this is even appropriate) your devotion to family. I don’t, however, understand the significant difference between a child being in a morning or afternoon kindergarten class (I can hear the sound-effect gasps now). Can you please elucidate?
I’ll take your answer off the air.
no –please answer on air.
when our kids were that small we thought briefly of moving to belmont instead of cambridge, outside boston. but belmont only had half-day kindergarten and no pre-school, but cambridge had full-day both. it was a no brainer: we were (and are) a working family! we needed family-friendly schooling!
i was afternoon K myself, back in the day.
I didn’t go to kindergarten. That makes me more degenerate than all y’all–even you, Dave.
I was always home in time to watch Days of Our Lives with my mom, so I guess I was a morning kindergartener. And Ruben, my life has still been pretty fouled up.
Wow, loved all of this, but especially with that opening quotation from American Psycho. I’m still wondering what comment you’re making about yourself through this reference… Hmmm….
Ruben, I quite liked this, especially your self-portrait as hunter-provider. Careful, though, this standing (well, sitting in a comfortable, ergonomically-designed lawn chair) in line for things for your kids could go anywhere. Next thing you know, you’ll be in line for Miley Cyrus tix.
Also, I think I still bear the scars of having attended kindergarten all day long.
What would get Ruben up at that ungodly hour? His kids! Nicely written.
bryan, you called it, i think the reason most people want the morning session is efficiency in terms of getting to work themselves or meshing the schedule of their younger kids more seamlessly with their older siblings. but it was the economic psychological model of desiring a good simply because other people deem it important-i know many of the families waiting beside me don’t have two parents who work, for example-that really intrigued me.
i wonder at what point suburbanites will start paying teenagers to wait in line for them outside of the elementary school. the emphasis on whatever people mean by “good schools” obviously drives the whole thing. a guy sitting next to me said that he moved from a different city just to send his children to this particular school. i found this laughable considering that this was the very same institution that had produced me but kept this to myself. throw in the fact that i went to high school with one of these sought after kindergarten teachers and the whole thing becomes even more bizarre.
tim, i shudder to think what the next incarnation of miley cyrus will be-thankfully one of the wiggles has retired-only to be replaced Menudo style by the way-but i’ve already gone to “see” thomas the train in person so who knows what’s next?
jeremy, thanks for catching the Ellis vibe-the first draft was much darker but i hope there’s still an element there that calls the whole piece into question.
#2: Obviously not. If it were, it would be universal knowledge, and I have no clue what you’re talking about.
Without Googling it or inquiring about the Great Whatsie space, I mean.
Or maybe I’m just not privileged to universal movie-knowledge.
Kate, you assume that great things are universally known. It’s equally possible, and more likely in view of available evidence, that great things are known by relatively few.
I like your theory, but does it apply to movies? They’re meant to be seen by large audiences, just by the nature of how much money they cost and thus how many people must see it to make a profit. And generally, if it’s considered “great” or even “classic” it’s because many people think so and thus is generally known, isn’t it?
However, very plausible that I’m assuming stuff. It’s a problem I often run into, assuming stuff I probably shouldn’t. I had a boss tell me once, when I told him that I had just assumed that another co-worker was going to do something that he was assigned to do, “Don’t ever assume anything!” While that’s probably not a good statement either, it’s memorable.
I loved the drama in this post and that you would do for your children what you would not do for yourself. (The Whitney Houston soundtrack was a nice touch too. Do you think she stood in line for Bobbi Kris?) As for me, I missed the whole pre-school ordeal. A desire to sleep in is all I learned in those early years.