The Legal Pad
The Legal Pad
I am ten years old and riding a BART train.
I’m sitting on a BART train by myself. I’ve spent the day at summer camp which is in Orinda — a long BART trip home. I’ve been canoeing all day and I’m tan and tired from all the fun.
I need to be careful as the train is quiet and smooth. BART is clean and usually empty these years as San Francisco is not Babylon yet. I’ve fallen asleep on the train before and I don’t want to miss the stop like last time. I’d ended up in Daly City, the big ending block on the map. Someone woke me up and I had to go back the other way for about half an hour. My father was frightened when I returned later than expected and I certainly didn’t want that to happen again.
The doors open, I make the short walk, get into my father’s building and office. I blow through the receptionist — I’m here each day for day camp; no need for “buzzing” for me. I check with my dad’s secretary to see if she needs any copying done as I enjoy the collator thing they have on it. Nothing today for me unfortunately, and I walk into my father’s office.
He’s smiling at me and looks happy. He’s rarely down, but today he seems excited and wants to talk a bit before we leave.
He tells me that Hillwood has decided what grade you will start in the fall. My mother had been up a few weeks back and I saw my mother and father in the same room for the first time — or at least, that’s all I can see. I’m curious but not overly worried. The test was administered to me as Farm School had zero grades and somehow I was both fine and defective for that depending on who you were talking to. Hillwood was the polar opposite — many grades. Grades associated with your age. Grades for every little piece of work you did. Every day you were getting judged and this is a good thing because kids really thrive on continual precise and cold feedback. It expands the mind and opens their curiosity to become better people when they know, for certain, that they are 3.42 GPA versus some loser with a 2.2.
I took a test that, to be honest, was simple. Basic math. Can you read? (Yup.) The proctor had to give me a book as there were two of us and I couldn’t just move to the next section . We both needed to suffer together , but she was nice enough to let me read while I waited for the time to be up for each section.
I’m not looking forward to this, but I’m too old for Farm School. So Hillwood was always the cost of living with my father in San Francisco and well, I was okay with that too.
My dad pulls out his weapons of war and the tools that he uses to make all sorts of money: a cheap Bic pen and a pad of paper. No computers on his desk. He has books in there in case he needs to look things up.
He’s talking and drawing at the same time.
“So, your test results are in and I want you to know that no matter what, it’s fine.”
This makes me a bit nervous and he’s talking fast. He’s drawing a horizontal fork with 5th grade and 6th grade on each tine.
“For your age, kids may test fairly and end up in 5th grade, and others do better, and end up in 6th.”
I’m sure I’m heading to sixth…
…and then the pen moves faster and he’s talking fast now.
“…but some kids do outstanding and these people go to 7th.” And he puts my name on the line.
I laugh and am proud for a second. Then we leave and see a movie later.