Where was I between 1972 and 1973

Concerning the Gaps in my Record

Recently, the liberal media brought some forged documents to light about my record. I want to set that record straight. Where was I between 1972 and 1973? That’s easy: I was in nursery school.

I don’t know why no one remembers me. It was 30 years ago! I couldn’t tell you the names of all of my classmates. There was a Kathy, I remember that. We flew planes together. Sure, it was a Fisher-Price model that was about to be discontinued, but we made that baby soar while we had the chance.

So there was plenty of evidence that I did well at the 92^nd Street Y. I’ll admit that my father’s connections—his friend’s cousin’s uncle was on the board—let me leapfrog over 150 other applicants to get a space. But see what you have to keep in mind is, he didn’t have to manipulate the stock market to do it.

Everyone agrees that I passed many happy days at the Y. Some people thought I was cocky for someone so inexperienced and privileged, but what do you expect from a kid? I only left when an important playgroup necessitated my transfer to West Side Montessori.

So why aren’t there more attendance records? That’s not for me to answer. You’ve all seen the finger paintings, but some say that’s not enough, that there ought to be evidence I was living in New York or somesuch. Well, you’d have to ask my mother, but she says everything is in the attic, and she can look again, but she isn’t sure where they are. Papers so old may have been destroyed over the years, but maybe she could find a few craft projects. I don’t know about anything official from the school, though; my father threw out receipts after five years.

I don’t know why the record gets hazy here. People claim I didn’t show up for three months, and maybe I missed some days, but I was there. Kids get sick a lot. Those Montessori places were always too unstructured to focus on the books, I know that. Singing songs, building with blocks, eating a snack—I got all the credits I needed. And I know that a number of the teachers have passed away since then, god rest their souls.

The important thing is that we get to the bottom of these forged report cards—I’m sure that Mrs. Applebaum was never forced to “sugarcoat” her comments, and she never could have been disappointed in my performance on the playground. That school secretary—“It was a forged report card, but everything it said is true” —well, she’s 86 years old! Nobody believes an old person.

So there was that note in my permanent record about needing a physical to attend class. My mother wanted me to have the physical, but she couldn’t get an appointment with our family doctor, and she says that I cried and cried, really hard, if she tried to take me to anyone else. All these claims that she didn’t want me to take the physical because I’d had too much cough syrup are completely baseless.

Look, what counts is that I served my purpose at West Side Montessori and I made my parents proud. I received a diploma, same as all the other toddlers. We all knew that my doing well at such a prestigious institution would keep me off the streets and get me into Harvard one day. And it all worked out for the best. Okay?

From “50 Tries” at kiersten.connersax.com