Ostler 1

Ellie Ostler
Fall 2014
Ms. Ingram
September 22, 2014
Second Home
We had just come back to the classroom after recess. Once the door was opened a rush of
smells danced out the door as a gust of wind escaped from the enclosed room and brushed
against our tiny faces. The room had that specific type of smell that you cannot decide if it
smelled bad from the passing of sweaty children, or good from sugar tainted breath and the
aroma of crayons and pencil shavings. Either way, the smell was overtaking and took me to the
mindset to learn, work hard, and have fun as whenever something is associated with a
kindergarten classroom.
United Faith Christian Academy, a second home to its students, where I spent 8 hours of
every weekday for 180 days in the same room. It is where my friends were and where I first
began to read and write. I was always excited to see my friends but never wanted to get up to
face the day and go to school. The classroom was brightly colored to distract us from the fact
that we had to be away from our families. Its serenity reminded us to stay happy and that this
really is a second home for us to come to.
Our cubbies were to the far right of the room covered with decorated names for each of
the 20 students in the class, next to the door decorated with various drawings by different
students, and behind the train set rug that was probably in every kindergarten classroom across
America. There were several posters that covered the walls of the room such as the weather
calendar, the weekly chore chart, and our ticket chart for if anyone misbehaved. To the left of the

Ostler 2
room were bean bags and a bookshelf -full of books without chapters and more pictures than
words- next to Mrs. Dellingers desk, which no one ever dared to go near. The middle of the
room was where all of our desks were with each students name on their assigned desk and each
of our belongings of papers, crayons, and candy were all shoved messily into each desks tiny
compartment. My desk was in the front of the room, close enough so I would not get distracted
and still able to see every letter and number drawn on the chalkboard.
When the uniform group of children in a sea of khaki, blue, and burgundy settled down in
their seats, we were ready to work. As the noise dwindled and the traffic light that regulated the
volume of the room changed from yellow to green as the silence settled, Mrs. Dellinger
announced, Work diligently students. This is key when learning to read and write. We must
finish page seven of our workbooks today so nap time will be delayed until we finish. Now then,
lets get this done efficiently because we do not have time to waste with anymore nonsense!
Mrs. Dellinger- even to someone taller than 4 feet- was intimidating. Over 5 and a half
feet tall, and maybe 40 years old, she already had a face full of wrinkles from a permanent scowl
she wore on her face; we could see each line as she leaned over us to look us straight in the eyes.
This always made us lose whatever train of thought we had when we looked into her grimace
filled with wrinkles and smelled the pungent resonance of her last meal. From her glasses hung a
beaded string that held her glasses around her neck and up to her face. She was skinny and wore
baggy clothing all clung together at her waist by the same belt she wore practically every day.
Her blonde hair was straight but always frazzled from her constant moving as she looped the
classroom then swooped down to her desk to frantically and furiously begin grading papers.
After several weeks of class and dealing with Mrs. Dellinger on a day to day basis, I
began to think, This woman hates children and should not be teaching if she is just going to yell

Ostler 3
at them. Mrs. Dellinger would patronize us in front of the entire class when something was
mispronounced or read too slowly. She was not very tolerant when it came to mistakes.
There were only faint noises of the rustling of little hands searching through the cluttered
desks for pencils and for our little wooden tools given to us so that we left enough space in
between each word when writing. Mrs. Dellinger then began to pass out the writing worksheets
down the rows for each student. The metal and plastic desk pressed its cold edges against my
warm body but I was small enough to curl up into my seat comfortably. I felt the paper smooth
against my hand and the heat rise from my extremities to my face as my palms started to sweat.
Mrs. Dellinger had given us instructions on what to write about but I could not remember all that
she instructed us to do. I started writing and forming my sentences but was still unsure if I was
writing about the correct topic assigned to us.
Everything was calm and quiet with only the rustling of others working the sheets of
paper given to us and Mrs. Dellinger scrummaging around at her desk. I looked around the room
and then at my paper. I felt my breath stop and my muscles tense as realized that I needed to
make sure I was writing about the right topic. Meaning, I had to ask Mrs. Dellinger for
clarification. I struggled for composure, took a deep breath, and gained the courage to raise my
hand. However, she was too distracted by her work at her desk to notice. I slowly pushed my seat
back and dragged my feet ever so slowly over towards Mrs. Dellingers desk. It was like there
were drums in my chest that pulsed through my body as my heartbeat began to quicken.
With my worksheet in hand I quietly said, Mrs. Dellinger. No response. I waited for a
moment and then said, Excuse me, Mrs. Dellinger I have a question. She stopped her work,
still facing her paper, placed her pen down and looked down at me with her scowl, What? she
asked. I took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. Im sorry to interrupt, I was just

Ostler 4
wondering if you could tell me what we are supposed to be writing about again. I couldnt
remember but I started writing a little. I told her this as I cautiously reached over the desk to
hand her my paper. I shivered after she practically ripped the paper out of my hand and I thought,
Oh no, shes in one of her moods again.
She read over my work and let out an irritated sigh. She picked up an eraser and began to
forcefully erase what I had written. I knew at that point I had written something wrong but she
was being a little dramatic, not that I would ever dare to mention that. I relaxed a little at the
thought that there was not much else worse that she could do at this point. Eraser shavings were
scattering across her desk. She was making such a scene that the class began to notice. The blood
rushed to my face until I became flushed and my eyes began to well with tears. She erased the
paper so hard that it tore. She then crumpled it up, set it aside along with the eraser, and whipped
out a new worksheet. She held it up to my face and loudly announced to the entire class, Please
listen to instructions the first time I announce them because we do not have enough time for
this. I wondered, Why are we always in such a hurry? I was still standing at her desk, in
shock that she had taken such offense to me not hearing her the first time. I repressed my tears
and took the new sheet of paper as she repeated the instructions to the worksheet. I returned to
my desk with my head down and stayed that way until she relieved me from my punishment and
allowed me to pick my head up and continue my work. This was my second home. Where I spent
over 1,440 hours a year learning to read and write.