Theme Week #4

1. Write about it as close to black and white, just the facts as you possibly can.

I wandered down the hallway of my children's elementary school for Open House night.  Parents, kids, aunts, grandparents, cousins - filled the hall, all going in every direction.  My daughter tugged my hand and plowed forward.  Thank goodness she knew where she was going, because I had no idea.  As we headed toward her classroom, I looked around and noticed the same cinderblock walls that had been there for... well ,a long time since I could remember them from when I went to this same school.  Miranda's hand pulled loose from my own as she jogged ahead and into a doorway.  She was so excited about Open House, about showing me all of the neat things that she was doing in third grade.  With a wave to her teacher, I headed toward my little girl.  She was standing proudly by one of the small desks.  She was very excited about having a real desk of her own, not just a table with a cubby like last year.  I got to see a couple of projects that were laid out for parents to see examples of what their kids were doing all day, and a quick tour of the room to see the different areas for math, reading, and the older computer in the back. 

"It's from the olden times, Mrs. B. says it's ancient!" my daughter whispers.

I sighed because I recognized the admittedly older computer.  It looked much like the brand new ones we got in eighth grade.  After the tour, I spent a few minutes talking with her teacher and signing up for conferences.  My daughter convinced me that we had to say hi to her teacher from last year on the way out, however I threw in the condition that if she was busy with other parents we would have to pass.  As it turned out she was busy, and regardless of my daughters whining, we headed out the door and back to our house.

2. Then write about it so that the basic facts are there, unchanged, but you throw in a little fancy stuff to improve the story--you make the girl a blonde instead of a brunette, you add a few horsepower to the engine, you buy a few more dollars worth of clothes than you actually could afford--all this done, not to lie, but to make the truth sharper and, if you will, even truer.

I wandered down the crowded hallway of my daughter's elementary school for Open House night.  Parents, kids, aunts, grandparents, cousins, dogs, cats, hamsters, etc - filled the hall, all going in different directions.  A sea of people.  My daughter, barely restrained my my grasping hand, pulled me forward with single-minded purpose.  Thank goodness she knew where she was going, because in this craziness I could barely tell which way was up, forget trying to find her classroom.  As we headed toward her class, I looked around and noticed the same cinderblock walls that had been there forever... well not forever, but a long time since I could remember them from when I went to this same school.  Dotting the walls were samples of student writing and artwork.  I could see tell that we were nearing the third grade rooms as the printing got neater and the artwork contained less fingerpaint.  Miranda's small hand slipped loose from my own as she sprinted ahead and through a a nearby doorway.  She was so excited about that night, chattering on for hours about all of the neat things that she was doing in third grade.  With a wave to her teacher, I headed toward my little girl.  She was standing proudly by one of the small desks, like Vanna White next to the new puzzle, the name tag along the top bore her neatly printed first and last name.  She was very excited about having a real desk of her own, not just a group table with plastic bins for her crayons like last year.  She showed me her paper skeleton, they were studying bones last week, and a couple of other projects that were laid out for parents to gush over.  We also went on a quick tour of her room.  She showed me the reading area, the small desk with math games, and the computer area.

"It's from the olden times, Mrs. B. says it's ancient!" my daughter whispered, pointing at the sad computer sitting in the back of the room. 

I sighed because I recognized the admittedly, older computer.  I remember how excited I was when my eighth grade class got a brand new computer, one that looked quite the same.  Truth be told, it probably was the same ones.  I smiled at my daughter and reminded her that "ancient" wasn't a nice way to describe how old something, or someone, was.  After the whirlwind tour, I spent a few minutes chatting with her teacher about how Miranda was doing.  Nodding when Mrs. B. exclaimed at how nice and polite my daughter was in class.  Who was this child she was talking about?  She reminded me to sign up for conferences before I left, and turned to the next set of parents.  I could have sworn she gave the same exact script about their child.  As we once again braved the crowded hallway, my daughter convinced me that we had to say hi to her teacher from last year on the way out, however I threw in the condition that if she was busy with other parents we would have to pass.  As it turned out she was busy, much to my relief, and I wrangled my daughter toward the exit.  Whining just a bit, she joined me and we headed out the door and back to our house.


3. Finally, start with the same material but let it off its leash. It originates in fact, but winds up as fiction. Now the details aren't changed to tell the truth in a new way--they're just pure fiction.


My daughter and I entered her school and hit a wall of people.  It was Open House night.  There must have been three or four adults for every child attending the school packed into the little hallway.  Parents, kids, aunts, grandparents, cousins - filling the hall, milling about, heading off in small clumps in every direction.  I closed my eyes and sighed quietly, this is not what I wanted to be doing tonight.  Hubby was going to owe me big time for this one.  Interrupting my quiet moment, my daughter yanked on my hand to get my attention, and began plowing forward.  I mumbled apologies as I was dragged through and around other bewildered parents and family.  Thank goodness I didn't wear sandals, my toes were safely protected from being stomped on inside of my sneakers.  Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Miranda darted through the crowd.  I nearly lost my grip on her little hand, but managed to hang on as she towed me (hopefully) toward her classroom.  As we headed down the hall, the crowd thinned a bit, and I could see the old cinderblock walls that had been there for... well a long time, since I can remember them from when I went to this same school.  They were a bland tan color now, dotted with art and writing from the students, not like the awful green that I still shudder to remember.  I completely lost my grip on her hand as she pulled loose and ran into a classroom, hers I hope.  She was so excited about tonight, about showing me all of the neat things that she was doing in third grade.  I took a deep breath and entered the room.   Her teacher was circled by eager parents and children near the far side of the room, so I figured that I would wait to try to talk with her.  I waved in her direction and headed toward Miranda, who was dancing in anticipation.  She was standing by one of the small desks, proudly gesturing to the neatly printed name tag along the top.  I smiled as I wondered how long she would be sitting in the middle of five other desks, being a chatty person by nature,  was sure that she would be on the end within the month.  She was super excited about having a real desk this year, not just a round kiddy table with a plastic bin like last year.  Samples of her work were sitting on top of the desk.  Apparently they was supposed to reassure me that she was learning something besides social skills in class.  The paper skeleton that was on top was interesting, until Miranda told me that they were going to make clothes for it next week.  How do paper dolls fit in to the "No Child Left Behind" policy?   The teacher still appeared to be rather bogged down with parents, so we went on a quick tour of the classroom to see the different areas for math and reading.  There was a sadly older-looking computer in the back. 

"It's from the olden times, Mrs. B. says it's ancient!" my daughter whispered, as she pointed to it.  Excellent.

I sighed because I recognized the admittedly outdated computer.  It looked much like the brand new ones we got in eighth grade.  I wondered briefly where all of the tax dollars were going for technology since they apparently weren't going into this classroom.  After the tour, I waited my turn to spend a few minutes talking with her teacher.  The scripted exclaimations of "She's doing great" and "It's so much fun to have her my class this year" didn't do a lot for me, I had heard her saying the same things to the last mom.  She happily gestured to the board at the front of the room and reminded me to sign up for conferences.  I was tempted to "forget," but Miranda had heard her teacher and dutifully reminded me before I could slip out of the door.  I don't understand conferences.  I live in a small town and see my kids teachers almost daily at the post office, store, or when I pay my water bill.  I know if there is any problems that I get a phone call, so I just don't understand the concept of a whole meeting of scripted conversations.  I signed up for the conference, maybe something interesting would come up in the mean time and I would have something to actually talk about.  Leaving the room, my daughter squeaked about visiting her teacher from last year.  I didn't like her teacher last year, and I think the feeling was rather mutual, so I was not excited about visiting for fun.  I reluctantly agreed, however I threw in the condition that if she was busy with other parents we would have to pass.  Luck smiled upon me, as we looked in the room and the teacher was mobbed by her own circle of parents.  In addition, one child was lying on the floor having a temper tantrum, rather loudly.  I refrained from smiling, chastizing myself that it wasn't nice, and teachers work really hard, and blah, blah, blah, whatever, serves her right.  At this point I really just wanted to go home, my crazy, loud, children-filled house was nothing compared to this zoo.  This time I was the one that plowed ahead, tugging my daughter along, searching for the magical Exit sign that would release us from this madness.  Finally, we reached the doors.  I sent a sympathetic smile to a couple of parents bracing themselves to enter, and pushed on the doors to escape into the night.  I would call tomorrow to cancel the conference.