Death at Middleton Kindergarten

“Today we are alive, and what matters is today.”

— The character Berlin, in Money Heist

The universe has played a cruel joke on us. Planet earth? A doomed rock spiralling toward the sun. And our beloved sun? A half spent fusion reactor which will one day explode in a supernova. All circling a black hole at the center of the Milky Way which waits to consume everything. No matter how large of a rocket Elon might build, there is no escape for humanity.

Closer to home, America’s the same sort of joke. They made us believe our vote matters in a sea of two hundred million voters. They sold us this grand myth that George Washington was a virtuous man (ignore the slaves) and Lincoln was a saint (ignore the compromises). We’re force-fed these stories since birth, the idea that at some previous time, humans were noble, and above the narcissistic apes scrambling to leave a mark on something before they die that we see today.

With these thoughts swirling through my mind, I push through the front doors of Middleton Kindergarten for Parent Night.

A cheerful receptionist chirps, “Hi there! Which grade?” before pointing me down a hallway plastered with handwritten signs. Other excited parents shuffle past, their nervous laughter echoing in the hall. Being a single dad, I feel greatly out of place. And I’m 5 minutes late. Or maybe 10.

I step into Room 13B. Emily waves, then runs over to hand me a pamphlet.

“Welcome to the Middleton Parent night,” she announces as if she’s never met me. The government is training them to be mindless robots. Emily whispers in my ear, “You’re late, Daddy.” Her tiny fingers squeeze mine.

Up front, her teacher Ms. Johnson runs through the curriculum for five-year-olds. The teacher is attractive. In another life, I might’ve flirted with her in a bar. Now, as a dad of a high maintenance daughter, and being someone who can never manage to show up for anything on time, that’s never going to happen.

“Any questions?” she asks the room.

A mom pipes up: “Are there areas where Jacob needs extra help?”

“Jacob’s doing great,” Ms. Johnson replies, her smile tightening. “Also, let’s stick to questions of general interest to everyone.”

Another parent asks, “How can we reinforce learning at home?”

“Buy them books?”

“My kid only reads when it’s part of a game.”

“That is completely developmentally appropriate at his age.”

Another mom raises her hand.“My daughter cries at sunset because ‘the sun is abandoning us.’”

“That is also developmentally appropriate and nothing to worry about.”

“My son asks if ants have souls before stomping them.”

“That’s a new one, but sounds developmentally appropriate for a 5-year-old. I promise you, all of your children are currently bound for Harvard.”

A few dads exchange glances. One mutters, “If Harvard still exists by then.”

Ms. Johnson sighs. “Look, I didn’t go to Harvard and I get paid $40K a year to say your children are ‘developmentally appropriate’ while I watch them suck their thumbs all day. Any last question?”

I raise my hand. “Why does this classroom have hamsters? Is it ‘developmentally appropriate’ for five-year-olds to witness death?”

“Our hamsters are doing just fine.” Ms Johnson’s binder snaps shut. “And thank you everyone. Now I will have a few minutes to talk to each group of parents privately. I’m looking forward to it!”

The door opens and an excited swirling pack of children rushes in. And like that, we’re herded out of Ms Johnson’s classroom by our own children, now acting as our jailers chanting “This way!” as if we’re cattle.

Soon all of us are in the cafeteria, and Emily bolts into the chaos of screaming kids jumping on the stage on one side, while I’m left stranded in a flash mob of parents. The next twenty minutes is going to be awkward.

Before I go further, I should tell you about Emily. She’s the joy of my life. Every milestone of her life, from standing up, to learning how to talk, to playing a few notes on the piano, has filled me with joy. But her latest development sent me a curveball. At the age of 5, she decided she wants to write detective novels. Her stories leap through characters and plots and events like a game of table tennis. On each new sentence, someone is making a friend, or flying to a new country, or killing someone. On the last page, there is usually a sketch of the killer standing above a dead stick figure, holding a knife with the victim's blood dripping off. She turns the stories into her teacher for homework.

“Her cartoons can be pretty dark,” I tell Ms Johnson, during my parent chat. “Is it a problem?”

“Emily has great creativity!”

“Sorry about her pictures”

“Emily is a great artist! She’s doing so well.”

I wonder if she’s heard a word of what I said. She flips through a binder, showing me pages of Emily’s handwriting and math homework. “Our time is up,” she says abruptly. I see a pair of parents staring in through the window door. It feels like I just sat down.

It's clear that after meeting with a dozen parents, Emily’s creepy cartoons are the least of her worries.

Back in the cafeteria, I need to mingle to not look weird. Heaven forbid anyone thinks Emily’s dad is weird, and tells their children to avoid my daughter.

Emily runs over, holds out her latest murderous sketch to me, and demands, “Dad, I need you to buy me a new red marker.” She runs off before I can answer.

I put on my mingling game face back on. Feeling like the first day of school, I smile confidently at a cafeteria of strangers. Luckily, someone approaches me.

“Hi, I’m Greg. Beth’s dad.”

I recall Emily mentioning Beth.

“Emily’s Dad” I nod, then listen attentively as Greg introduces his wife, Sue.

“We’re trying to remove all the microplastics from Beth’s environment,” Sue says.

“And, we’re going to watch the last episode of The Residence after she’s in bed tonight,” Greg chimes in.

“Netflix. It's all just a distraction from death,” I say, a thought that has been on my mind lately.

Sue furrows her brow, unsure how to answer.

Greg says cheerfully, “The show we're watching, The Residence, is about a murder. A murder distracting us from death?” He laughs to himself.

“But that's—"

I'm about to explain the difference between existential dread and murderous voyeurism when Greg’s wife interrupts.

“Greg, I need your help with the coffee.”

He looks confused for a second, and then Greg seems to understand what she wants.

“See you later,” he says before walking off. A minute later, I see Greg and Sue on the other side of the cafeteria talking to another group of parents.

Emily comes and pushes a hot dog on a paper plate into my hands. She either knows I eat when I'm nervous, or intuitively grasps it.

“Don't snarf it all at once.”

“You mean scarf it? Scarf it up.”

“Don't snarf it.”

“Scarf.”

“Snarf.”

“Scarf it, the proper word is scarf it.”

“Whatever.”

Emily leaves me alone to debate with myself. I would look 'snarf' up on Google to prove her wrong, but my hands are occupied by a hot dog that threatens to roll off its tiny wobbly paper plate.

I wish I could sit down. The thought of finding a chair makes me think about another thing I’ve had on my mind. Politics. Why are people always “standing” for things. What does it mean if you “stand” for Ukraine? If I stand for the Milwaukee Bucks does that make anything happen? Everyone is always standing, but I want to sit down. if foreign leaders would have a “sit down”, that would be better than everyone standing up and fighting about things. Anyways, all the sitting down and standing up is just stupid.

Greg approaches.

“Sorry, I got pulled away before.”

"You're back!" I say, not having any idea why he has returned.

“I liked what you said about existentialism. That entertainment is all just a distraction from death.”

Did he just really say that. “You do?”

“I studied drama at Northwestern.“

“Really?” I seem to have misjudged him.

“And I wanted to introduce you to Liz from my book club, I think you two might have a few things in common.”

He calls a young woman over, who's eclectic fashion contrasts with the business casual vibe of the other parents.

“I’m a fan of John Green and Kalanithi. You know, sick-lit. Greg told me you are too, I can’t stop telling Greg and Sue about the books!" Liz says.

“John Green's books are great. I haven’t heard of Kalanithi tell me more.” I feel my heart flutter, its exciting to meet someone new.

“Kalanithi chronicled his years spent dying. He was a neurosurgeon who diagnosed himself.”

"Wow!"

“Did you know there are hundreds of toxins that have crept into the food chain that can cause cancer?”

She tells me of them while I eat my cafeteria hot dog.

Glyphosates, atrazine, bromates, acrylamide–they all sound deadly serious.

Liz quotes statistics and explains to me how hormone disruptors act on the human body. I listen earnestly.

I'm about to change the topic and tell Liz my theory of how art is all just a distraction from death, and see if she gets the jist of black holes, when I notice Emily staring at me disapprovingly from a few tables away.

Emily rushes over to tell me something.

“Daddy, you have ketchup on your shirt. It looks like blood.” Her fingers points up at my shirt and I look down at my stomach.

Sure enough, a dollop of ketchup is dripping down my new Old Navy t-shirt. I wipe it with a napkin, while Liz continues to tell me about the unstoppable cascade of kidney failure caused by aflatoxins. I feel a jolt of pain in my side.

Greg's wife Sue weaves through the cafeteria and rejoins us. “Well aren’t you two are a match made in heaven!”

I study this intriguing, passionate individual in front of me who has enthuastically been telling me about sickness the last few minutes. Maybe telling her about the black holes will create a fusion dish of existential dread dark enough to shutdown Parent Night. Liz puts a hand on her hip and looks back at me. Some similar calculation seems to be taking place in her mind. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she says.

She walks away and studies the kindergarten notice board. She doesn't need anyone reminding her of the inevitability of it all either. The penny drops. I need to stop telling people my theories about life.

I turn to Greg and grin. “So… how about the Milwaukee Bucks this season?”

***

Life Tip: If another person's behaviour irritates you, properly vent out your frustration, anger, and judgment about that person, and then pause and think about whether you ever do the same thing yourself.