Red Star for Phone Number

A Kindergarten story

My kindergarten teacher was a giant. Or so it seemed. She probably wasn’t more than 5’10”, but from my perspective at barely six years old, she might as well have been thirty feet tall. She was also remarkably soft-spoken, the kind of person who rarely said anything, and when she did, making out the words required straining your neck like a giraffe in her direction. She was both physically imposing and painfully reserved. It was an unsettling combination. Oh, and she was also a sadist. But more about that later.

There wasn’t much to the kindergarten curriculum in those days. They expected less of us than they do now. Line up single file, roll out the mats at nap time, spell your name—these were the benchmarks. I remember lines of multi-colored stars filling a grid on thick beige paper—oak tag, they called it—with each of our names listed on the side. Complete your learning task, and the reward would be a star sticker of a particular color next to your name in that task’s column. Tasks were to be attempted only in the order prescribed by the teacher. Pursuit of the blue star for alphabet, for example, was strictly prohibited until you had earned the green star for home address. It was a rigid and punitive system. By mid-year, the chart was lined with stars of various lengths. It was like one of those squirt gun horse race games you see at a water park, but with much higher stakes. These stickers were everything, the currency of our sick little society. A long line didn’t just mean you had completed more tasks or acquired a new skill, it meant you were a winner. It meant you were good. A short line meant one thing. Shame.

One boy came to our class mid-year, his family having just moved into town. The teacher added him to the bottom of the chart and made him start from scratch, forcing him into an unwinnable game of catch-up. Through no fault of his own, his line of stars remained embarrassingly short for weeks. By the time he finally caught up, it was too late. The school year was nearly over, and he had already been branded. By the start of first grade, he was gone. Sometimes I wonder what became of him. Presumably, he just wandered off somewhere beneath a cloud of impossible sadness.

On each day of phone number week, the teacher called five of us forward to recite our home phone numbers from memory as our classmates sat in judgment on the floor before us. The reward for success would be a red star and a one-way ticket to the next task. In a particularly devious twist, she positioned us directly below the star chart during these performances, and stars were awarded—or withheld—in real time, for all to see.

I remember waiting my turn. I had practiced at home, standing on a chair, dialing my number on our black rotary wall phone, spinning the dial over and over as I spiraled the cord tightly around my opposite finger. I knew the number cold, but still I rehearsed, holding the seven digits in my mind as I watched my classmates step forward in succession to prove themselves.

The first two recited their numbers with ease. The next student also came through, despite a suspenseful pause between the final two digits that put us all momentarily on edge. I fixed my concentration on the phone number in my brain, willing it to stay in place. I was close to the front of the line now. One more to go until my turn. My shirt collar tightened and itched against my neck. It was hard to swallow. My eyes were drawn to a girl in the front row. Awaiting my turn, she gritted her teeth and tugged nervously at one of her pigtails. The sight did not inspire confidence. When I tried to refocus on the image of my phone number, one of the digits flickered, and for a few seconds, disappeared. When it reappeared, had it returned to the same position? Was there an eight now, where the five had been?

The last student to go before me was another success. No one had faltered. There was celebration in the air. I had only to take my turn and let the red star ceremony begin. I stepped into the spotlight and turned toward my classmates. Searching my mind, I saw nothing but static, a random pixel pattern—what we used to call “snow” on an analog television screen. Occasionally, a digit or two would emerge to tease me and then dissolve, until finally the plug was pulled, and there was only a blank space where my phone number had been.

I would be the last in my kindergarten class to earn the red star for phone number. As my classmates moved on to new challenges, I remained stuck for more than a week. I recall nothing of the day I finally succeeded—no sense of relief or satisfaction. No celebratory air. In its place ran an undercurrent of anxiety and a judgment that I had done nothing special. I had only managed to finally do what I should have done all along. I would earn more stars that year, eventually reaching a respectable position a few stars off the pace—just under the radar where, as time passed, I would come to like it best. I rarely looked up at the chart for the rest of the year, but when I did, all else fell out of focus, and my eyes went straight to the red star—a reminder of a humiliation I was determined to never let happen again.