First day of school
From Pod Literature
Author: Pod
On my first day of elementary school, my mother gave me a ride. Help me figure out which class it is, throw me down, and walk away without looking back.
The school was originally a mosque, and then it was changed into a school, and I was quite panicked about the style of the house there.
I stared at my mother's back and subconsciously followed her to the door. I wanted to tell my mother that I was afraid. But I didn't dare say it. I saw that everyone else's mother was gone, and my mother could not accompany me to school.
I was helpless, I just felt like I had nowhere to put my hands and feet. I looked around for familiar faces, trying to find someone who could talk to. I see that everyone is talking and laughing, but I am not. But I just couldn't open my mouth. There are also partners I know, and I know partners who have new partners, and they seem very close. I was depressed and felt abandoned.
I ducked into the corner, thinking only about whether to go home or not. I had the idea of running home, and it wasn't far away, and it didn't take me a minute to run home. It only takes a minute, a few more blinks of an eye, to be liberated and to be with your family. Why not be with my family, why come to a place where so many strangers, I don't want to go to this school.
As I struggled internally, the school bell rang. The bells were loud and piercing, and my tense body stiffened. I saw a tall male teacher shouting at a loudspeaker, and all the new students stood at the door of their class, standing in rows, listening to the teacher's arrangement, don't run around, and take their places. As a reflex, I immediately ran towards the door of my class.
At the door of the class, my classmates stood in front of me one by one, and I slowly became the last student. I wasn't the tallest, and every time a classmate stood in front of me, I took a step back. All the students lined up, and my homeroom teacher stood at the head of the line.
The class teacher is a female teacher with short hair, not small, hairstyle and face are like my grandmother, and the hair of the ear is behind the ear, which is very kind and makes me feel at ease. The difference between the teacher and grandma is that the teacher has a pair of small glasses, but grandma does not.
Grandma-like teachers divided us into two teams, big and small, and the boys and girls were divided into two teams. The classmate who had previously stood in front of me changed his position again, and I was in the middle of the line. The teacher stood at the door of the class, one-on-one to call the students to the class, no need to scramble, all the students had their own places.
Slowly, my nerves became relaxed. Everything becomes new, and there is a difference between going to school and not going to school. The teacher stood in front of the podium and began to roll his name. Every student who was named had to stand up and shout "to", and the teacher would look up at the student. Obviously, she wanted to familiarize herself with the names on the roll call with the people on the bottom number.
The name that the teacher clicked on was no longer a handsome boy or the like, but had a surname and a name. Some names bite the mouth, the teacher is not smooth, after calling several times, directly ask the student to go home and parents, change the name. The next day, the classmate changed his name.
The teacher called my name, and a sense of novelty arose in my heart again. Despite the moment I stood up, my hands and feet were sweating, and I successfully completed my first appearance. The grandmother-like teacher looked at me and sat down. I sat down, immediately put my hands behind my back, and stared intently at the teacher as she read the name of her next classmate.
On the first day of school, the school issued books. The teacher said, go back and put your bag on the book cover and write your name on the book. After school, I went home with my book in my arms. I don't have a school bag yet. When he returned home, he gave the task of wrapping the book cover to his brother. My brother wrapped it well and used the newspaper he usually saved. It was the father who wrote his name on the book. I can't write yet.
My father wrote well, which was praised by a teacher like a grandmother. A teacher like my grandmother did not know, and my father, like her, was also a teacher, because he became a rightist and lost the qualification to go to the podium. Otherwise, most likely, it would not be my grandmother-like teacher standing at the podium, but my father.
About the Author:
Dou Xianjun (Dou Pod), female, currently living in Heilongjiang, engaged in prose and poetry creation, since the 1990s began to publish poetry and prose works. His works have appeared in many publications such as Shilin, Novel Forest, Petroleum Literature, Years, Guangxi Literature, Tokyo Literature, Taihang Literature, Juvenile Literature, Chinese Prose, and Presence. Some works have been selected for multiple prose anthologies. The masterpiece "No Heart Grass" won the "PresenceIst Prose Award" of the 2012 Chinese Folk First Prose Award. The collection of essays on "No Heart Grass" won the Harbin Swan Literary and Art Award in 2016.
Editor: Ma Xuemin
One point number Qingwei Heze creative base