kindergarten table, one of half a dozen tables set up outside.
Mama looked around at the other mothers on the playground. A few had dressed nicely, but no one looked as nice as Mama, and many of the women wore the same dresses in which they’d probably clean their houses when they returned home. “Old country,” Mama sniffed, regaining her courage.
A pretty blond lady who looked barely older than a teenager stood behind the kindergarten table. Our teacher? I hoped so!
“What a beautiful ensemble,” the lady said when she saw Mama.
Mama beamed, then introduced us. “Barbara Inez Greenstein and Elaine Rose Greenstein.”
The blond lady leaned forward a little and talked directly to Barbara in a voice like bells. “Barbara, your teacher is Miss Madenwald, in room eleven. I’m Miss Powell, I’m a student teacher, and I work with Miss Madenwald. We’re going to have such a lot of fun.” Then she spoke to me. “Elaine, you’re in Miss Carr’s class. That’s in room twelve.”
Miss Powell’s smile traveled to whoever stood behind us, but Mama didn’t move.
“They’re both in the kindergarten,” she said.
“Yes, I know,” Miss Powell said. “Some of the older children are inside, Mrs. Greenstein. They’ll help you find the rooms.”
“They’re twins, the same age, five,” Mama said. “They’re both in the kindergarten class.”
“Oh, yes.” Miss Powell smiled, understanding now. She explained slowly, as if Mama were the kindergartner, “We have two kindergarten classes. One teacher is Miss Madenwald, and the other is Miss Carr.”
“Why put sisters in different classes?” Mama set her jaw the way she did when she challenged a sum at the market. But her accent got stronger, and sweat beaded her face.
“We always put twins in different classes. It helps them make friends with other children.” I noticed now that Miss Powell was sweating, too. I followed her nervous gaze down the line of children and parents that had formed behind us—and spotted Danny,
my
boy from Aunt Sonya’s party! But I just glanced at him, because the argument between Mama and Miss Powell required all of my attention.
“I know my daughters. They should be together,” Mama said.
“Mama, I’ll be fine,” Barbara chirped, smiling at—allying herself with—Miss Powell. Why not? She had the teacher with the musical name, Miss Madenwald, as well as pretty Miss Powell. Who knew what my teacher, named like an automobile, would be like?
More than that, all of my life so far had been lived as “we” and “us” and “you girls.” In every mental picture I had created of school and classroom, Barbara and I were there together. It wasn’t that I was afraid of walking into a classroom without Barbara at my side; I simply couldn’t conceive it. My personal geography needed to change to allow kindergarten to mean Barbara and me both being at Breed Street Elementary School but in different rooms, with different teachers and classmates. As if I needed to reconstruct the world as I knew it in the few minutes between being on the playground and entering my class.
“Can you remember, Barbara, you’re in room eleven?” Miss Powell addressed Barbara, ignoring the stubborn immigrant who was ruining her first hour of being a student teacher. “And your sister is in room twelve?”
“Yes, Miss Powell. Eleven and twelve. Come on, Mama.”
Mama let Barbara lead her inside, but not because she had conceded to the wisdom of American pedagogy concerning twins.
“Why not tell you to put your legs in one class and your arms in another?” she fumed. “And how am I supposed to meet my children’s teacher if it’s two different people?”
“Here’s my room, Mama,” Barbara said, pointing out a sign that had a big
11
in red crayon, with designs of flowers and animals, in front of the doorway. Papa had drilled us on our numbers up to twenty.
“No, it’s not,” said Mama, and pulled us across the hall to a
Mama looked around at the other mothers on the playground. A few had dressed nicely, but no one looked as nice as Mama, and many of the women wore the same dresses in which they’d probably clean their houses when they returned home. “Old country,” Mama sniffed, regaining her courage.
A pretty blond lady who looked barely older than a teenager stood behind the kindergarten table. Our teacher? I hoped so!
“What a beautiful ensemble,” the lady said when she saw Mama.
Mama beamed, then introduced us. “Barbara Inez Greenstein and Elaine Rose Greenstein.”
The blond lady leaned forward a little and talked directly to Barbara in a voice like bells. “Barbara, your teacher is Miss Madenwald, in room eleven. I’m Miss Powell, I’m a student teacher, and I work with Miss Madenwald. We’re going to have such a lot of fun.” Then she spoke to me. “Elaine, you’re in Miss Carr’s class. That’s in room twelve.”
Miss Powell’s smile traveled to whoever stood behind us, but Mama didn’t move.
“They’re both in the kindergarten,” she said.
“Yes, I know,” Miss Powell said. “Some of the older children are inside, Mrs. Greenstein. They’ll help you find the rooms.”
“They’re twins, the same age, five,” Mama said. “They’re both in the kindergarten class.”
“Oh, yes.” Miss Powell smiled, understanding now. She explained slowly, as if Mama were the kindergartner, “We have two kindergarten classes. One teacher is Miss Madenwald, and the other is Miss Carr.”
“Why put sisters in different classes?” Mama set her jaw the way she did when she challenged a sum at the market. But her accent got stronger, and sweat beaded her face.
“We always put twins in different classes. It helps them make friends with other children.” I noticed now that Miss Powell was sweating, too. I followed her nervous gaze down the line of children and parents that had formed behind us—and spotted Danny,
my
boy from Aunt Sonya’s party! But I just glanced at him, because the argument between Mama and Miss Powell required all of my attention.
“I know my daughters. They should be together,” Mama said.
“Mama, I’ll be fine,” Barbara chirped, smiling at—allying herself with—Miss Powell. Why not? She had the teacher with the musical name, Miss Madenwald, as well as pretty Miss Powell. Who knew what my teacher, named like an automobile, would be like?
More than that, all of my life so far had been lived as “we” and “us” and “you girls.” In every mental picture I had created of school and classroom, Barbara and I were there together. It wasn’t that I was afraid of walking into a classroom without Barbara at my side; I simply couldn’t conceive it. My personal geography needed to change to allow kindergarten to mean Barbara and me both being at Breed Street Elementary School but in different rooms, with different teachers and classmates. As if I needed to reconstruct the world as I knew it in the few minutes between being on the playground and entering my class.
“Can you remember, Barbara, you’re in room eleven?” Miss Powell addressed Barbara, ignoring the stubborn immigrant who was ruining her first hour of being a student teacher. “And your sister is in room twelve?”
“Yes, Miss Powell. Eleven and twelve. Come on, Mama.”
Mama let Barbara lead her inside, but not because she had conceded to the wisdom of American pedagogy concerning twins.
“Why not tell you to put your legs in one class and your arms in another?” she fumed. “And how am I supposed to meet my children’s teacher if it’s two different people?”
“Here’s my room, Mama,” Barbara said, pointing out a sign that had a big
11
in red crayon, with designs of flowers and animals, in front of the doorway. Papa had drilled us on our numbers up to twenty.
“No, it’s not,” said Mama, and pulled us across the hall to a
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