A compacted reverie; a snapshot; one facet of a tumbling, turning kaleidoscope; a holographic glimpse into the world of a worn out whistle blower:
Cassandra Banks stands on the blacktop with her whistle. It is attached to an elastic bracelet, bright yellow today.
8:20 A.M. Recess Duty at a small rural school in the desert
Long yellow buses and short-bed pickup trucks are dumping out students in front of the office. They scramble along the sidewalk like rodeo steers heading down the chute into the arena, smelling the excitement and a hint of fear.
Invisible receptors guide each child toward the safest environment for itself.
This function is handled by Amygdala, a pair of lumps at the base of each brain that discern the emotional significance of incoming perceptions.
Mrs. Banks is soon surrounded by children in various pursuits:
pickup games of basketball, football, soccer, tether ball;
chasing friends up the plastic climbing gym;
screaming down one of the three slides, hoping to catch air;
landing in the district-approved wood chips.
Others are instinctively pulled to the tall swings:
They need the vestibular fix;
The rocking motion helps them sort out and process the sensory overload;
So they can find their balance.
Mrs. Banks is in the trenches on playground duty, where it all plays out.
Amygdala hijack
An amygdala hijack is an emotional response that is immediate, overwhelming, and out of measure with the actual stimulus because it has triggered a much more significant emotional threat.[1]
Amygdala activation often happens when we see a potential threat. The amygdala uses our past, related memories to help us make decisions about what is currently happening.
FlashBack to 1952: I am Cassandra at six years old, dreaming that I am on the blacktop playground of Barnard Elementary School in Tulsa. Just like every day before school in my mornings.
In the dream, we are chasing each other. Playing Tag. Adrenaline is high. I am nimble and quick, but if I’m not, the risks are too high to imagine in daylight. I watch myself from the dark.
In the dream, as each of us gets tagged and becomes ‘IT’, we begin to shrink.
It is tacitly understood that we will disappear from this familiar bodily state of reality, diminishing into nothingness, second by second, unless and until we tag someone else.
Tagging someone else restores us to full-size bodily existence and cancels our personal dilemma for the moment: We regain full corporeality and make immediate game improvement strategy adjustments. (Move more quickly, change directions, better assess other kids’ speed and agility, notice who is not catching on, decide what to do, be ready for anything.)
The one we tag now faces the same predicament: Reach out and touch someone….or suffer permanent erasure, quiet disintegration, no body, no legs to run with, absolutely gone forever. There are stirrings of guilt, sorrow, and regret, but I’m only six, with limited experience in problem solving of this magnitude.
On the playground today, Mrs. Banks feels responsible for countless potential mishaps, unfortunate possibilities, yet realizes she is essentially dispensable.
Her social triage and mediation skills are vastly underappreciated.
…..UNLESS you are a tiny kid on a big playground with hordes of other kids and your repertoire of self confidence assets is a blank slate, and it feels like you are in the middle of quicksand or a black slimy swamp:
And then you see....
Neon Vest of Lemon, Lime, or Tangerine netting.
It is flashing “Orange Emergency Cone” messages to your limbic brain.
“Canary On Duty! LIFEGUARD Ahead!
So you spill your guts: “That boy over there in the uh…he was over there by the slide…he has a blue…that boy by the one with the football…he ran behind the wall...”
WHAT DID THE BOY DO?
(Hit, kick, slap, trip, push, spit, take, grab, steal, lie, cheat, flip off, ridicule, touch privates, hug, kiss, imitate you, or eat your chips??) I wonder.
“He called me Poop Face!”
OK, we’ve got a situation.
That must have been awful! Are you all right?
“Huh?”
What happened just before he called you a Poop Face?
“I was just trying to make him stop eating his candy because my teacher said no one can’t eat candy at school.”
What’s your name?
“Crystal.”
Do you know the boy’s name?
“No, he ran away.”
Well, Crystal, my name is Mrs. Banks. Thanks for letting me know about this. I want you to go find something fun to do now, before the bell rings. I’ll talk to that boy about the rules. You go ahead and play.
“K”
Crystal turns and skips away, ponytail wagging.
The shoulder strap of her pink purse holds her pink poncho in place, so she can use both hands to fan out her pink skirt.
Flashback 1952—Barnard Elementary School in Tulsa. I am Cassandra Banks at 6 years old. I am not dreaming. I am at the horizontal bars on the blacktop playground.
I shinny up the pole to the highest of three levels. I am wearing saddle shoes with white socks, a clean white blouse, a full gathered flower print skirt, with modest shorts underneath.
I pause with one knee over the bar, the shoe of my bent leg locking behind the one that extends straight down toward the blacktop below. My hands grip the bar to either side, thumbs forward. Self-assured, I evaluate the space required, considering the position of nearby peers, and proceed.
I fall forward and let the momentum return me to the starting position, then without pause, I repeat the cycle around the bar reaching the desired number of spins: seven, ten? I meet the goal I set. Balancing on my perch, I switch legs and repeat.
The last one-knee spin, then a casual, but precise dismount.
I walk through the chasing, throwing-catching, chatter of kids toward the two story brick building. Down the shiny wooden hallway, past classroom doors, glass enclosed trophy cases, painted wall murals, the fire extinguisher cradle, on to the Girls Restroom.
Mosaic tiled floor, three stalls with swinging wooden doors, sinks with mirrors, paper towels, trash can. I enter a stall, come out, wash and dry my hands, and return to the playground. Back through the crowd, some acknowledge me, others focus on their games. I survey the scene, deciding what to do till the bell rings.
I touch the front of my flower print skirt, and follow the material to the sides and around the back. Something feels a little off. I look over my shoulder. I notice some kids stomping and laughing about six feet behind me.
I sense a slight tug at my waist. I make an instinctive grab for my skirt in the back, but instead feel the thick elastic of my shorts. A one-eighty reveals a long tail of flimsy white paper. I must have pulled my shorts up over my skirt and tucked in the loose end of the toilet paper roll!
I don’t fully understand what is happening, but I squeal and hop in a tight circle, wrapping the tail around myself a few times. I try a few backhand swats, but with the mounting panic, my coordination skills abandon me. The bell rings mercifully to signal a stampede toward the building. It’s time to line up. I wait to be last.
Oh, Sherry, Cherry, Cassandra Banks, whomever, little girl wise woman helper who has been there and back again. Some kind of awesome. Amygdala the reassurance of a straight hem or even a boy with his pants unzipped and finally snuggled in bed after rising to the ceiling and defeating the devil. Inspiring. Thank you!