APRIL 21, 2020 – Across the room from where I write this sits a globe mounted on a floor stand. The Western Hemisphere faces me, with South America in apogee. This proximity triggers a memory from kindergarten.
My parents had planned a winter break family road trip from Minnesota, down along the Mississippi River to New Orleans, then to the Florida panhandle, with a diagonal route home. On the day after Christmas, we—and our considerable luggage—headed “Down South.” It was a magnificent two-week expedition.
On the first day back at school, the teacher herded us into the “show-and-tell” circle.
“Okay, boys and girls,” said Miss Squires. “I’m going to call on Eric first, because his family just returned from a family vacation.”
That she would know we’d taken a trip was no surprise. Mother was on close terms with all the teachers. I doubted, though, that much detail had been imparted to Miss Squires . . . who, incidentally, had perfectly arranged gray hair and very red lipstick and was otherwise as sharp as a hatpin. In formulating my “show-and-tell” story, I should have known better.
In any case, I was eager to make a favorable impression. None of my peers had been beyond Minnesota. None knew north from south, let alone Arkansas from Alabama. I wasn’t sure about Miss Squires. She probably knew her directions, but she lived in an old duplex with the other kindergarten teacher, Miss Murphy. Had they even traveled outside of town? (Only years later would I learn they were world travelers!)
My brain wheels turned. A real traveler, I decided, was not someone who had gone for a long drive in his family’s Super 8 Buick. A real explorer was someone who’d ventured to some other continent. This thought juncture is where I made a gross miscalculation.
For weeks my family had been talking about the “South.” I was also fully aware that way south lay a whole distinct continent called, South America. On the other hand, it was also perfectly true that the “South” was in “America.” Thus, I reasoned, I could correctly say “South America” yet leave my teacher with the impression I’d been to a whole different continent.
I rolled the dice. In response to Miss Squire’s “show-and-tell” set-up question, I said, “South America.”
“N-n-o-o,” she said gently. “I don’t think you went to South America. But tell us where you did go.”
My on-the-spot humiliation turned immediately to horror. Not only had my attempt at a grandiose impression failed. Now Miss Squires doubtless thought I was no smarter than any of the other kids; that I’d been looking out the car window—at least during the hours I’d been awarded a window seat—for two whole weeks and had come back not knowing the difference between “Down South” and South America, for crying out loud, a thousand miles south of the South.
There in front of the other kids, who were happily oblivious, I had been made the fool.
Blogger’s note: it is fortunate that Miss Squires would never know that I’d go on to flunk eighth grade geography. But that is a story better left for another post.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
