"A String around My Finger" circa 1968

One day my mother told me that she was going to my school to visit my teacher.  They were going to have a talk about how I was getting along in the second grade.  My posture straightened with pride and I gave my mother a large grin. I knew my teacher would tell my mother that I was the best student in the class.  

Instead, Mrs. Payne told her that---while I was smart, I talked too much and interrupted other children who were trying to complete their class work.  I told my mother that I only talked when I was finished with my work.  

“And I help them to finish their work.” I explained with the palms of my hands facing upward to emphasize what a good thing this was.  But Mommie shook her head NO, a little frown creasing her face.

“Leslie, you can’t talk in class when you’re supposed to be doing your work.  You have to be quiet.  You have to let other children finish their work in peace.”

“But...I...” 

My mother raised her index finger up to my eye level. “Op!” she dramatized the strange non-word that meant there was was nothing more for me to say.  I began to pout. 

“Let me tell you what we’re going to do---” Mommie began, trying to sound cheery.  “I”m going to tie a string around your finger, and every time you look at it, you will remember not to talk in class, not to interrupt other children who are trying to get their lesson.  See?” She showed me a dangle of string.  I shuttered my eyelids so I wouldn’t have to see it all the way.

“Open your eyes.  Now, I’m going to tie it around your finger, like this.”  She tied a double bow around my finger.  It was limp and lackluster and I didn’t like it.

“You can pretend that its a ring.”

I tried to warm to this idea but I had seen better looking rings in the bubblegum dispensers at the A & P grocery store.  I gave my mother a mopey look with my lips poked out and my nose crinkled as if I smelled something that stank.  Her shoulders slumped with a sigh.

“Well, you only have to wear it long enough to improve your behavior.  Once you’ve learned to be quiet, you won’t have to wear it anymore.”

“Do I have to wear it at home?”

“No.”  My mother untied the string and I went away to lick my wound.

The next morning’s breakfast of oatmeal with raisins in it was dee-LISH! and I was in a good mood until Mommie tied the string around my finger and asked if I remembered why I was wearing it.  Once we reviewed its purpose, she gave me a warm you-can-do-it! hug and sent me off to school.

I didn’t want my classmates to know that our teacher had had a private talk with my mother about my behavior so I flaunted the droopy bow to a few friends.  I told them it was my “pretend ring”, and tried to make it seem like something they might want to imitate.

The bell rang and Mrs. Payne told the whole class to come to order.  It was time to stand beside our chairs to recite the Pledge of Allegiance with our right hands held flat against our chests.  Facing the limp American flag on its pole in the front corner of our classroom, our voices droned like a drowsy swarm of hornets, wasps, and bees.  Afterward, the classroom came alive with the banging of desktops and chairs screeching on the floor as we readied ourselves for the first lesson of the day.  In her gelatinous perfect penmanship, Mrs. Payne wrote the day and the date on the blackboard, then turned to scan her eyes over the group of us. 

“Everyone:  Today, Leslie is wearing a string around her finger.  Do you know why?”

Some boys whipped their heads around, anticipating a homemade contraption consisting of pulleys and ropes.  My friend, Sharalynn, raised her hand and tried to smooth her blond bangs on her forehead.  One of the things that drew us to each other was the fact that even though I was “black” and she was “white”, we both wore bangs and our top front teeth were growing-in slowly.  When Mrs. Payne called on her,  Sharalynn blinked her eyes, cleared her throat, and said, “It’s her ring.”  We gave each other a gummy smile.

“No,” said Mrs. Payne.  “It is not a ring, but a reminder of---” here, she raised her eyebrows at me.  The sting from her betrayal began to make my eyes water and equal parts of shame and resistance mingled recklessly in my stomach.  Focusing on the pukey green and gray floor tiles, I filled my mouth with enough air to make my cheeks swell.

“To remind you of what, Leslie?”

I deflated my cheeks to make room for words to become available in my mouth before I said “Not to talk in class.”

“And what else?”

“Not to....” I reached around in my mind for the other part, as if it were the last  shred of my dignity that I couldn’t give up.

“Not to...” 

Some children giggled while others held their breath and Mrs. Payne cleared her throat.

“Not to help...other kids with their work.”  

Mrs. Payne corrected me:  “Don’t talk to other children while they are working on their lessons.”

“Okay.”

“So, if Leslie interrupts you while you are doing your work, you can remind her of the string that is on her finger.”

Wide eyes sneaked looks at me. 

“And Leslie, if you finish your work before the others, then you may sit quietly.”

And that was the lesson for that morning, and two mornings afterward.  By the fourth day, the novelty of the string had worn off and neither I nor my classmates was interested in it, anymore.     

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