Playing House
by Grace Poyta
“Mary Kate, don’t you want to try being the sister this time?”
“NO, I HAVE to be the dog”, she hissed on all fours.
We eyed each other. Everyone knew the rules of playing house: you had to switch roles each time so that everyone would have a chance to play each part. It just wasn’t fair for one person to be the dog every time. And it was especially unfair if the repeat dog didn’t play according to the no-scratching, no-biting, no-clawing agreement previously established by the play house residents. But Mary Kate didn’t care. We all had the scratch marks to show for it.
This in-school violence was, ironically, the one thing my mother had sought to avoid when enrolling my brother and me in our early years of education. Considering her known past, one could never be quite sure if it was the years of Catholic school paddlings or that one school bus stabbing episode that inspired her wariness of public education. But by the time I was ready for kindergarten, all we could see was a firm belief that the best schooling a child could get was one of good old-fashioned religious values. And after a certain desk-throwing incident at the local elementary school, it was set in stone. We would be attending a Christian school.
So, every morning for the next three years, my brother and I would wake up bright and early to glare at each other from behind a wall of whole grain cereal boxes before donning our favorite variations of the school uniform. For my brother, there was a choice of two pairs of pants, tan or black, and three polo shirts, red, black, and white. In my own wardrobe, I had the same shirts to pair with my khaki skirt or plaid red jumper — all to be worn, of course, with white cotton stockings and a pair of Mary Jane flats.
And that is how I went each morning, buttoned up in the most righteous of clothes with beaded braids bouncing, ready to take on the day.
And take on the day I did. In that first year of school, our house became terribly cluttered with paintings and drawings of my very own hand. Overloaded magnets, which seemed to be perpetually sliding down the front of our cream-colored fridge, gave the poor old appliance the weariness of a spring snowman’s softening smile.
When I wasn’t coloring in printouts of lion’s dens and technicolored coats, I could be found jumping rope or partaking in one of my favorite activities — swinging and singing. But of course, all good things must come to an end (though my Double Dutch expertise and five-year-old stamina would disagree) because it was never long before my unruly classmate would come along with her own idea of fun.
Apart from her barbarity when it came to playing house, Mary Kate’s bad behavior bled into other aspects of our schooling. Take, for example, one particular day when the class had been turned loose to develop our kinesthetic skills by exploring God’s creation. We had spent the day under that dazzling northeastern sun, burying our fingers in the mud and plucking bright yellow dandelions, puzzling at the milky white sap that leaked from their stems.
But it wasn’t long into these outdoor adventures when the ambush arrived. Little did I know that as I sat, peering at a line of ants as they marched along, Mary Kate was lurking about, a tube of bubble liquid in hand. Bubble liquid, which would soon seep into my pigtails and drip down the back of my neck, forming a sticky cast on the starched white collar of my uniform.
Confusing as it might be for any one of us to watch this unseemly behavior unfold, it was made ever more puzzling by our classroom lessons. Even as we bore the chaos that our troublesome classmate unleashed, we were made to consider what it meant to be created in the image of God. Our confounding recess, which so clearly opposed the lessons of our Biblical storytime, had, in my mind, muddied the proverbial waters of Christianity’s truth. So, when Mary Kate had subjected me to that bubble solution baptism, I truly began to wonder about the stories I had been told.
Despite my many confusions, nothing could take away from the bliss of a good storytime. During daily readings, our teacher would drift over to her wooden stool, calling us all to gather round. Then, once the whole lot of us were crowded onto that thick navy rug, complete with its border of rainbow letters and numbers, she would begin to read. Whether it was the beautiful promise of Noah’s Ark or the harrowing tale of Shadrach Meshach and Abednego, the stories always left me entirely captivated.
But this wasn’t the only type of learning that took place on that beloved blue rug.
Because one day, in true Christian school fashion, we were summoned to the class rug and seated cross-legged before the reading stool. But instead of producing the usual picture book, our teacher sat, hands clasped. For a moment, she studied us, then slowly began.
“Now, who here has let Jesus into their heart?” A few of us raised our hands tentatively while the rest sat quietly, squirming.
“Well, if you have not, I would like you to stand up and repeat after me.”
After a moment’s pause, the class rose and spoke the Lord into our hearts. To this day, I cannot say with certainty what was accomplished through that declaration of acceptance. Did Jesus truly enter into our hearts as we stood, hands clasped, on that blue cotton rug? Perhaps for some of us, he did. But I can say with near certainty that there was one heart among us who rejected whatever spiritual guidance Jesus might’ve offered. One heart devoted only to desires of the flesh — or one might say, for the flesh.
Because even with these holy teachings tucked away in our hearts, our dear friend Mary Kate’s play habits were as vicious as ever. No matter how many songs we sang, or popsicle stick crosses we fashioned, nothing could break that little girl’s mulch-throwing, bubble solution pouring spirit. And if God couldn’t move her heart, then who among us would have the guts to put our clawing classmate in her place? So collectively, we accepted our fate as owners of this fictitious dog, with very real teeth.
Now, you may wonder what would motivate a little girl to such violence—I certainly did. Perhaps it was a neglectful upbringing or a troubled household that led to such vicious play habits. I certainly never found out. Because after a couple of hours at the Mary Kate household, I knew I could never go back.
Picture a little girl’s playdate. What exactly comes to mind? Playing dress up? Chalk drawings? Juice boxes and goldfish? Well, as a sort of play date expert, that is what I expected as I stood on Mary Kate’s doorstep that day. But by some oversight of my mother, or surely some fault of my own, I found myself just an hour later sprawled on the hardwood planks of my playmate’s staircase. Bound by my wrists and neck.
You see, the playdate started like any other.
“So, what do you wanna do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ok”
Now, perhaps I should have known better than to trust Mary Kate and her new, “fun” game that day. And while I’m not sure if torture was a typical aspect of a Mary Kate playdate, my indecisiveness and shy compliance surely created a perfect opportunity for evil, not to mention full home turf advantage.
How exactly this game turned so sinister, I can’t quite recall, but even so, I can still see myself quite clearly: tied up with a string and entirely alone.
For some stretch of time I sat, deathly still in the silence of someone else’s house, awaiting the return of my jailer. With my face pressed up against the wooden beam, straining against my unyielding shackles, I wondered momentarily if I should die.
By the time my mother arrived to collect me, I bore an expression last seen on the beaches of Normandy. And despite my feigned resistance to my return home, folded in the thin layer of dust underneath Mary Kate’s kitchen table, it was clear that the naivety of my spirit had been thoroughly stamped out. Never again would such a disastrous meeting unfold on my watch.
And never would I tell my mother about the details of this nightmare playdate. Because in all her avoidance of the world’s many dangers, she had marched me straight into a hostage situation at the hands of Mary Kate.
While I cannot deny that an education that promotes strong morals may be beneficial, I cannot say with confidence that a Christian education will shield a child from monstrous behavior. Even after I moved onto a more traditional public education, I could never claim that the people we meet at Christian school are any more civil than the children of the world. Because even when served the fruits of the Spirit, something is bound to spoil.
But I can say that I certainly never forgot those strange little playmates, or the little Jesus rattling around in my heart.