Send Me A Wolf
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
It was a dull wet day in March, 1975, I wanted the earth to give way and lead to another reality. It is a mission of mine — finding portals to unknown worlds. I proudly step in mud puddles and a little electric arc flies from my soul, straight out my sparkly hazel eyes. I always take a moment to honor my kindergarten teacher Ms. Sedgwick when I encounter a puddle.
On this spring day, I went the long way around a mud puddle between the gymnasium and the main school building. Other kids were following Ms. Sedgwick. I wanted to circumnavigate the entirety of the puddle.
I like greeting and interacting with all bodies of water. Everyone tends to be a line-walker in elementary school, especially Kindergarteners. I struggle; lines, like sugar, dissolve in my head…Sweet is the trespass over boundaries, especially when it comes to entering water.
I wasn’t a happy-go-lucky child; my joy took place in my head and random thoughts seeped out in the form of action. I was spirited.
I found comfort in where I was heading more than where I was. The present was exhausting; I was always hatching a plan for a way out…somewhere beyond. My mother was sick and my father was unavailable. My mind sought other worlds.
I walk around puddles in a specific and superstitious way. I like how it feels to dramatically introduce myself and then jump straight in. Always an invitation, I like to force my foot dead into the middle…just to be surprised by the resounding splash and the art it awakens and leaves behind.
Ms. Sedgwick was my first teacher outside of my Jackie, who was my father’s mother. Jackie was a soul portal, a spiritual guide who taught me to transform all experiences for a higher purpose.
New souls are given a lot of opportunity to be sheep; I have always imagined myself to be more of a wolf. My Jackie was the alpha female in my pack. Jackie grew me into the woman I am. Ms. Sedgwick, on the other hand, holds a very special place in my memory. She taught me about wisdom from a diffused angle. Because of her, I learned to shine in an extraordinary way.
Ms. Sedgwick helped me discover an unknown universe existing outside my head — far beyond the realm of running in fields and climbing trees. When I was in school, I longed to be at home playing in the woods. Ms. Sedgwick helped me come to terms with my inner conflict. She taught me how to listen to myself. I am forever thankful for her guidance.
Kindergarten is about purpose. Ms. Sedgwick led me through a maze of rules that governed the unnatural world. She played the greatest role in guiding me through the awkward process of becoming a member of society. Kindergarten is a mini-debutante ball for five year old girls.
How you look, how you behave, the way you dress, and your coloring skills determine your rank and file. To this day, behavior is an ambiguous concept to me. It’s word origin has it’s root in Middle English, havour “possession,” altered by the influence of have, an old French verb avier “to have.”
A broken family leads one to a lot of wanting and a desire to have more. My mother, in and out of the state mental hospital, was a ghost — vacant. My dad was your average good ol’ boy rural drunk. Richard Kyle was a smart, funny and polite man. He had a dynamic personality. He was an amazing mechanic and a hands-off-dad. Some drunks encompass a both/and space. My dad was one of these drunks. He was charming, likable, full of spontaneity, and had a lot of pizazz. For a time, his acceptable drunkenness was comical…until it wasn’t.
I spent my childhood roaming free and playing movies in my head. I was planning the world I was going to inhabit as an explorer on my own. Mom’s absence and Dad’s drinking provided access to my aspirations. They were not around to guide me; I led myself.
In 1975, kids needed naps to overcome all the information they were learning. Rest balanced the varied forms of guidance and influence overtaking each of us. For me, I needed to dream. School demanded escapism. When we crawled onto our mats, I set off dreaming. It was a time for playing movies in my head. This time was my greatest and most joyful escape of the day. I slept once during all of kindergarten. I might have been sent to school sick. Ms. Sedgwick actually called the high school and had them send over a photographer from the yearbook. This incident is preserved in time.
On this particular rainy day in March, slipping away from the line-walkers, I went all the way around this tidy little pool of opportunity. The good children were stepping one-inch-to-the-side, just a tiny nudge, a little tweaking maneuver to avoid getting wet. At the entrance, I saw Ms. Sedgwick directing each child into the building as they passed her in line.
I entertained in my mind, what I longed to do in my soul—I wanted to send water everywhere. Sometimes, I have a sensor. Sometimes, my higher self will follow ridiculous rules just to keep the peace. I’m sure I learned this in Kindergarten.
I didn’t jump. I never touched the water. I slipped around the circle like looping a knot in my sneakers and rejoined the line my detour was holding up. Behind me they stepped, one-inch-to-the-side, one-inch-to-the-side, one little wee inch in perfect synchronicity with the herd. As if I were invisible, no one followed.
Without a care in the world, I moved forward with the others. The moment came and went with pleasure. A rest assured unawareness captured my attention. I entered the building dry. Ms. Sedgwick tapped my back with the others — her duty as a guardian. “In you go, in you go, in you go.” She counted her sheep one-by-one.
After returning from PE, I was distracted with the routine bustle of repositioning myself into my desk-chair and preparing for whatever came next.
Ms. Sedgwick cleared her throat, grinned in a way that my Pawpa called shit slurping, and summoned me forward. She looked proud.
Our leader wasn’t much for cheerfulness; I felt a warmth overcome me. You know that feeling of being chilly after a swim in a cold lake — then quickly climbing into the warm, sunlit cab of a pickup truck? She made me feel embraced.
“Miss Kimberly, would you kindly come to the front of the class.”
The tone of her voice was sincere and inviting. I was to stand before everyone. She pointed to the circle. This is where awards were handed out for perfect coloring or being exceptionally tidy. I had never been acknowledged for anything. I was a simple girl; I never received praise. I always had a harsh grip on a crayon as if I were out to destroy lines. Shading, blending, and becoming were not in my box-of-eight crayons. I was no debutante. I wasn’t equipped.
Miss Opal, who was married to our neighbor, Drunk Leroy, made me a special dress for Kindergarten. I was so proud on the first day of school. My long, brown, floral, Little-House-On-The-Prairie dress was spectacular!
I had no idea Miss Opal was actually part of the Oklahoma Land Run. She believed little girls should dress properly for school. She was old. I didn’t know any better. Miss Opal made me feel prepared. I felt radiant for a moment. I stepped on the bus and discovered I was more of a relic than someone special. I had been dressed in a time capsule.
I immediately stood out among all the little girls in short gym shorts with white trim on the bottom. White, tight tee shirts with rainbows were all the rage in 1974. Outfits were polished off with black and white bent toe sneakers, accompanied by high tube socks with a band of color at the top.
On that boiling, hot, August day, I looked like an oven mitt with bad teeth. I was more of a sock puppet with engine wires for hair. I did not represent any kind of child starting an extraordinary new beginning.
Oddly enough, this made me disappear more than I stood out. Poor kids in rural Southern Oklahoma school districts were aplenty; we were a “mixed-breed” of Chickasaw or Choctaws. We were simple heathens and primarily ignored. Being poor, white and Chickasaw made me one third of nothing — empty space.
To be different was to be excluded. I was ok with the left alone part. Solitude has always been a comfort for me.
Today, I was being recognized. I was excited. I felt pride bubble up inside of me in a surprising and almost arrogant way. I wanted to inhale all the extra flowing over the top of a root beer float — to suck in the deliciousness before it slid away.
Ms. Sedgwick was a stern woman who didn’t have any admiring qualities beyond being in charge. She rarely smiled and always seemed to have an emergency to solve.
She had a shaky-busy-kind-of-walk. Her head was held high, face always directed forward, and her body was jump-jittering as she moved—like a red rubber ball sprung free from a bubblegum machine. Ms. Sedgwick marched down the hall with an awkwardly rhythmic determination as if she had her own song playing over the loud speaker. The music matched her waddle.
“Don’t talk to me I’m busy… Don’t talk to me I’m busy… (waddle, waddle, waddle) Don’t talk to me I’m busy… Places to go… Problems to solve… Perhaps theres a fire…Don’t talk to me I’m busy!”
I ignored her, the way she did me.
In this instant, I desired her approval. It was a moment, a simple little moment I will never forgot.
I stood in front of the entire class — every eye was on me.
I had the teeth of an alcoholic-mechanic’s daughter — spaced out and uneven with striation marks from the sulphur in our rural well water. I was told I was pretty in a different kind of way. Like a wild Indian paintbrush growing out of a crack in Oklahoma clay. I didn’t belong and still, I was a flower; there was something unique about me. I felt it. Jackie reinforced this feeling…it was our secret.
When Ms. Sedgwick called my name, while pointing at the circle, my indifference towards her melted away. My smile was as wide and long as Lake Texoma! I couldn’t help it. My joy was forced out of my face and on display. You could count every uneven-spaced-out-tooth. Ms. Sedgwick looked at me with adoration.
Marty Luke was in the front row. I glanced toward him. He smiled back. I quickly thought this would be my opportunity. Marty would forgive me for jumping off the ground seat of the teeter toter, slamming his head into the metal handle when he hit the earth.
In 1975 those gigantic play-yard seesaws were archaic chunks of solid welded metal…tipping six feet high off the ground. The cross bar was a steel tube of uncapped-jagged-shards-of-teeth…the kids in the high school tech-ed class didn’t bother grinding down.
The bell rang; we were like rats in a Skinner Box, programmed to run to our mark and get in line promptly. I was fast! I could follow rules and do something I loved. I crave a both/and world.
Jumping off, I sliced a gash into Marty’s face instantly. It was the second week of school.
An entire lecture series on totter etiquette followed Marty’s visit to the school nurse. Prior to the incident, we were soul friends. He had the biggest and brightest eyes I’d ever encountered. You couldn’t even imagine a boy like Marty Luke into existence—the dream wouldn’t be perfect enough. I longed to be near him.
I loved Marty.
Our little affair ended on the spot. Slam! Bone hit metal. Blood has a way of terminating friendships.
There I stood, aglow, for the admiration that was to follow. I had no idea why Ms. Sedgwick called me up; surely Marty would reinvest in our friendship. All I needed was one minuscule granular of approval from Ms. Sedgwick to seal the deal.
While I stood there gloriously swaying in the special circle, this dry cornhusk of a woman’s face turned into gleeful disapproval; her pupils filled the entirety of her eyes. There wasn’t a glimmer of acknowledgment or favorable reception on Ms. Sedgwick’s face, and yet, she stood there grinning.
Proud of misleading me, she had a meanness about her. I had been fooled by the desire of having. The French calling of “avier” had seduced me into believing beyond my place in this world.
“There are rules that are never meant to be broken. Rules are for your protection.
Kim here, she doesn’t like following rules. When all of you are napping, she’s wide awake day dreaming. When I call on Kim, she’s rarely listening. And today, little Miss Kim stepped out of line and jumped in a puddle.”
Perhaps Ms. Sedgwick was a mind reader and knew I wanted to complete my ritual. I’ll never know what possesses the soul of a woman with the personality of a thumb—useful but unattractive.
She stared holes through me with her 911 face as she slowly, and delightfully, pulled a ping pong paddle out of her desk drawer. And right there, in front of Marty Luke, in front of the entire class, she asked me to bend over.
Before pulling the paddle straight back and striking me forcefully three times, she said,
“This is what happens when you don’t follow rules.”
I can do pain. Humiliation is a different beast.
My face was aflame with self-righteous indignation. This plain, awkward, blind, hee-haw-of-a-lying-woman was evil.
Marty looked away.
My head swearing mind was firing off the foulest of words…I howled internally. My spirited incantation was enough to pull me through.
“Shit, damn, stupid, mean, donkey ass, hateful, spit crust, hell, heifer cow, piss on the floor, shit-dumb, lying-shit!!!”
She wasn’t worthy of my admiration! I clearly wasn’t worthy of hers.
Ms. Sedgwick saw what she wanted to see in me, not who I was. This is another lesson I learned in Kindergarten…people tend to do this.
While exploring a beautiful gallery in Silverton Colorado this summer, I found a work of art that called to me. It was a gentle whisper reaching inside, resting peacefully where it belonged.
Empowerment, Mix Media on Wood by Beth Anderson
My Chickasaw ancestors followed the teachings of nature. The Great Spirit will have an animal cross your path as a lesson. I keep a book by my bedside entitled Animal Speak by Ted Andrews. Every time I encounter an animal, I look up the teaching or medicine the animal offers.
When I returned home, I placed the small 8 X 4 Empowerment artwork on my desk. I grabbed my copy of Animal Speak and searched for the wolf.
The girl in Anderson’s painting is ethereal, light, and centered. She does’t possess any clear definition, facial expression, or a fixed place to anchor her. She has no need to declare or proclaim. She’s open…unguarded.
I read through Andrew’s description of wolf medicine until I came upon this beautiful sentence—it left me still.
“The wolf teaches you to know who you are and to develop strength, confidence and surety in that you do not have to demonstrate and prove yourself …”
Like a chime on a quiet, clear day, I heard a soft gentle vibration calling me home.
Photo by Yamine Kettal on Unsplash