Remember When?

Can you remember what it was like to be five-years-old? Running around the playground, innocently chasing a crush. The feeling of grass on your skin as you roll down a hill, already gearing up to sprint back up. Perhaps there’s a funny story you know from your days in kindergarten, one that you know either because you remember it yourself or it’s a story your parent insists on sharing whenever they have the chance. Perhaps early childhood was a blur with no lasting memories, or a time in your life you don’t want to remember.

For me, sweet little nothings arise as I think of my time in kindergarten. I recall a particular day where the class had show-and-tell. It was a day full of excitement and nerves. The excitement stemmed from bringing something I loved to share with my peers (it happened to be a small Powerpuff doll named Blossom). The nerves were in anticipation of sharing something my peers would think was dumb, or worse, they simply weren’t interested in. Show-and-tell was such a major moment for five-year-old Maia, yet this is likely a moment only I remember at this point in time. Other students and my teacher had their own experiences to recall from that day, and so I doubt anyone else fully remembers what I brought to show-and-tell nineteen years ago. At least, that’s what I would infer.

Of course, this moment was only a small facet of that particular day. Was what I felt during show-and-tell truly the result of bringing a small doll to class? Or is there more to the story than what I can recall? As a student of developmental psychology, I know that this period of my life was rife with change and growth. Yet, I consciously remember an insignificant fraction of what I experienced. That fraction of a fraction is imbued with doubt and ambiguity, so much that it’s tough to say what was actually true in the moment. Perhaps, the adults who were involved in your life remember more than you expect, or at least, remember more than you ever could.

If my kindergarten teacher could remember me, would she be surprised of the person I am today? Was the small slice of life she saw me for, amidst a sea of other kids, enough to foretell the adult I eventually grew to be?

This past year, I worked afternoons as an instructional aide in a kindergarten class featuring one nearly retired teacher, a community volunteer, 25 students, and a rotating cast of classroom parents. Despite the number of adults in the classroom, the students never ceased to surprise us each day. We were faced with a mix of children who either did or did not have prior experience in a classroom setting, or even being in a large group with their peers. Most, if not all, of these students lived through a worldwide quarantine at the age of three. These considerations don’t even take into account the daily variables every individual child (and teacher) navigated.

In spite of this variability, patterns in behavior would begin to emerge. You could tell when one student had poor sleep the night prior, or when another was anxious about troubles at home. On those days, students’ reactions to parts of the class routine and their peers would shift in predictable ways. It’s hard to fully summarize the patterns I saw, as some much inter- and intra-variability occurred on a minute-by-minute, day-by-day, and month-by-month basis. Yet, as mentioned earlier, patterns did emerge. Prediction of student behavior was possible. The key to prediction was continued involvement in the classroom setting, seeing full sequences of interaction unfold in real time, and observing all agents in the classroom, including both adults and children.

However, each student was unique. Preferences, learning style, thoughts, actions, background… you name it. However, one thing was universal: by the end of the school year, all students had developed socially and emotionally. Whether the development further reinforced adaptive or maladaptive behaviors and thought patterns, or spurred new ones, each student keenly took in their environment and adapted accordingly.

It was a great privilege to work in a classroom full of growing humans. Each day I spent supporting the teacher and the students, I walked away with a dozen stories. As much as I would like to share them, these moments should be held private to those they involve. All I can say is my experience helped re-establish the wonderment I had as a child, and it gave way to newfound appreciation for the teachers, parents, and everyone else who supported me in my educational journey.

For that fateful day in 2004, further introspection will shed some light on the full circumstances surrounding my show-and-tell. Most of that autobiographical data is lost to time, but one of the greatest endeavors I can engage in my research is to recapture time and memory in hopes of pushing forward the knowledge of today.