I am eight. The school bathroom is a concrete box with a row of stalls painted glossy royal blue opposite a row of white sinks—everything at right angles and uniformly spaced. There is a narrow slit of window above the sinks with louvered glass panes to let in air. The bell has just rung and I am alone. Instead of hurrying to class as I should, I get the idea to look out those windows. I must know what that view is like. I climb up onto the porcelain sink. It’s cold and hard against my bare knees. I stretch on my tiptoes to peer out. But when I touch one of the pale green glass panes, it instantly slips from its metal casing and crashes to the sidewalk outside. Shocked and horrified, I scramble down and run to class. I must have confessed to my teacher, though I don’t remember that part.
Next I am sitting in the principal’s office: a huge dark desk and a man behind it, his attention focused on me. He is balding, unsmiling. His horn-rim glasses perfectly polished. He is waiting for an explanation. I don’t remember what I said, but he keeps calling me back in daily. For how long? A week, two weeks? Each torture session the same: the adult male authority asking what happened and why; the shy young girl unable to articulate the force of curiosity, the unintended consequence. When my family moved out of state shortly after that I was relieved that I could escape the situation.
But in my mind (several decades later) that principal is still sitting behind that desk—stern and unapproving. He represents everything I abhor about adulthood: the inability to remember that innocent desire to explore the unknown. He is all about playing it safe, staying in line, being satisfied with the concrete box. Is this what I’m becoming? What I’ve already become? God, no—please. Let me rebel against all such authorities—external or internal—that would stifle my creativity, that would suppress the urge for adventure and playfulness. Let me always be the one climbing on sinks, reaching for the light, risking broken glass.