#9 Reflections on Childhood Encounters with Stupidity
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Chapter 1: The Start of My Journey
Dear Fyodor,
It's been a while since we last connected. These past few weeks have been quite overwhelming, and while I know you would advise me not to neglect my writing and learning, I sometimes find it challenging. My children and my overly demanding dog often divert my attention.
To regain some focus, I crafted a schedule that minimized my interactions with the outside world. Yet, the occasional run-in with foolishness disrupts my calm.
You see, Fyodor, my aversion to stupidity traces back to my earliest memories. My first encounter occurred in kindergarten.
When I was just over a year old, my parents left me with my grandparents in the countryside, where I thrived in an environment filled with love for five years. However, upon returning home, I had to prepare for school, which meant attending kindergarten for a year. Being from a "professor's family," I was also expected to join a music school, where I chose to learn the piano.
On my first day at kindergarten, while washing my hands before lunch, a boy approached me and whispered, "Our nanny is stupid; you should tell the others."
I chose not to comply. Shortly after, he rushed out and returned with the teacher, pointing at me. "She said the nanny is stupid and that I should tell everyone!"
The teacher reprimanded me, and soon the nanny joined in, both yelling at me. They made me stand in front of the class while the other kids ate lunch, and I was told, "No lunch for you today! Stand in the corner! You're being punished!"
I was bewildered, having never been punished before. The nanny pushed me into the corner, visible to everyone, where I stood until the lunch was over. At least the yelling stopped.
With my back turned to the class, I found myself observing the cracks in the walls, pondering, "What just happened? The nanny truly is foolish. So are the kids and the teacher."
Strangely, I didn't feel hurt or angry; I was just curious, like a scientist observing a peculiar new species. Although we shared the same appearance and language, it felt as if we hailed from different worlds, with conflicting values and rules that baffled me.
My plan to remain silent and isolated failed, and I was still trying to navigate how to stay out of trouble—a quest I've yet to master.
Section 1.1: The Torturous Nap Time
Daytime napping was another ordeal. After lunch, we were required to push the tables aside, retrieve cots, pillows, and blankets from a large closet, and prepare for two hours of sleep. I had never napped before, and attempting to pretend to sleep only caught the attention of the teacher and nanny, who patrolled the rows, listening for any signs of wakefulness. Those caught pretending faced the most humiliating punishment.
I often found myself lying on the cot, crying, while the other children ate their lunch, oblivious to my plight. "You're being punished—no food and no piano," they told me.
It dawned on me that arguing with foolish individuals was futile, and crying only served to aggravate them further.
Fortunately, our music teacher intervened one day before a performance. She had come looking for me when I failed to arrive for rehearsal and found me crying on my cot. After scolding the teacher and nanny, she helped me get dressed and took me away.
In the large hall, we played the piano together, isolated from the other children who were outside. The hall, with its worn brown linoleum and old piano, felt like a sanctuary, a magical realm shielding me from the silliness and unfairness of the outside world.
Section 1.2: The Struggle to Fit In
I longed for my books during my time in kindergarten. While the other kids were just learning to read, I had already joined the public library at 4.5 years old after exhausting all the children's books at home.
We were forced outside to play twice a day, but I tried to avoid drawing attention to myself. Instead of joining in, I would pretend to examine the trees, flowers, or snow, depending on the season. Yet, at times, the teacher would insist that I interact with my peers.
I recall one encounter with a group of children playing in the sand. A girl asked for my handkerchief, and when I handed her my pristine, embroidered one, she promptly soiled it, creating a sand sculpture she proudly presented as "pasochka."
In that moment, I was taken aback, realizing our perceptions of beauty were worlds apart. "What a foolish game; she ruined my handkerchief," I thought, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
From that day forward, I understood that I needed to distance myself from those around me—teachers, children, nannies—if I wanted to thrive.
Music, literature, love, wise individuals, and the belief in miracles became my refuge. Yes, Fyodor, I remain that girl who holds onto her dreams of wizards and magic, striving to protect that belief and find joy amidst the chaos.
Every time I encounter someone foolish, like the characters Shvonder or Sharikov from The Heart of a Dog, I feel a pang of frustration. It requires time for me to regroup and recover from the encounter.
Now, I must take my dog for a walk, but I promise to keep in touch.
P.S. Shvonder and Sharikov are characters from The Heart of a Dog by Bulgakov.
P.P.S. My expression remains unchanged; I still view the world with a blend of curiosity and mild disdain.