By Joan Passarelli

Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans

Seeing my children head back to school this month made me remember my own first year of education.

I began kindergarten in Lindenhurst, N.Y., at a parochial school. I wore a navy-and-white tartan uniform, with a matching beret that sported a pompom of which I was very proud.

In that kindergarten I learned how to draw a squirrel on brown construction paper and cut it out. I learned how to sit at a desk and say “tomato” in French. I had a brilliant career ahead of me in that school.

Then, in April of my kindergarten year, my family moved to Southern California.

I was in shock from more than the mild weather. My new school, set in acres of citrus trees instead of the suburbs of Long Island, had carpet squares instead of desks. We didn’t learn any French, either. We colored pictures of apples.

The other Joan in class, called Joanie, who had long corkscrew curls and pretty eyelashes, colored hers properly, with a dark outline and lightly shaded middle. I, chubby, with short, straight hair, plain face, and plain name, didn’t do it right. (I disliked Joanie for years. I hope she will forgive me.)

Worst of all, my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Haines, was extremely concerned that I had not yet learned how to skip. This was apparently a requirement for progressing to first grade. I still remember her powdery, doughy hand holding mine in the playground as she instructed me: “Step, hop. Other foot. Step, hop.”

Kindergarten wasn’t all bad, though. I liked the round, red rubber balls we had at recess. I liked the dress-up corner and the velvets and laces there.

I especially loved the easels. Putting on a smock covered up more than my clothes. It covered up my confusion and my uncertainty about being the new kid. It made it safe to be who I wanted to be.

I loved the bright colors of the poster paint: the intense yellow, the alarming red, the blue so deep I wanted to fall in and drink some. Best of all was magenta.

I was hypnotically drawn to its neon pinkness touched with purple. I was entranced even by the word “magenta” when Mrs. Haines taught it to me. “Ma-gen-ta”: it sounded like “majestic” and “prince” and “Santa.”

I used magenta in every picture. I painted magenta frogs, magenta houses, magenta butterflies, even a magenta sun in the upper right-hand corner once.

After our paintings had dried, Mrs. Haines would ask us about them, and then write down what we said, right on the pictures. She took a thick black Magic Marker and, in neat kindergarten-teacher printing that was better than I could ever do, wrote down my words - my words! - with quotation marks around them.

I felt like a published author and a famous artist rolled into one when I saw my words marching across my magenta pictures in those bouncy, perfect letters.

I survived kindergarten and was allowed to go on to first grade, although I didn’t learn to skip until later. I’m grateful to Mrs. Haines, who gave me a bigger gift than the ability to skip. She helped me rejoice in what I created.

Thank you to all the teachers doing the same thing for our kids today, showing them that no matter how awkward they may be in other things, their creative expression is wonderful and valuable.

Passarelli is the mother of three and expresses herself these days in media other than magenta paint. Her column runs the fourth week of the month.