“Crayons in the Box”
A micro memoir by Jiaqi Jin (9).
The crayons I grabbed from the tray appeared to grow teeth and munch on my delicate fingers. “PUT THAT CRAYON BACK INTO THE CRAYON BOX!” my teacher said. I dropped the crayons, my eyes stunned with confusion.
Earlier that day, I had greeted Ms. Morey with a cheerful “Good morning!” as I walked into the classroom. My mind was calm, collected, and I was ready to learn. I dropped my backpack in the back of the classroom, and sat criss-cross apple-sauce on the rainbow colored carpet that was divided into squares, with just enough room for a person to sit comfortably.
“Hey class! How are you guys doing?” Ms. Morey said. She was a short person, with big round eyes and a huge smile; I was a shy, little tiny kid with eagerness. Because it was still early in the morning, everyone sat motionless, like a bear in hibernation, waiting for their names to be called out.
“Alright, class, today we will be reading a book called ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’,” Ms. Morey said. I was exuberant at the fact that we would be reading a book in class. Brimming with joy, I listened closely to every word and detail in the book, eager to know what was next. After finishing reading the book to us, Ms. Morey said, “Now we will be drawing a picture of anything that comes to your mind.”
“Ms. Morey, can I draw a picture of a caterpillar?” a classmate asked.
“Of course! You can draw whatever you like,” said Ms. Morey. Everyone went to their respective tables, deciding what they would like to draw while the teacher passed out thin pieces of paper for us to draw on. The kid who sat next to me, Damien, was quiet and didn’t like to socialize.
“Hi,” I said, trying to be as friendly as possible.
“Hello…” Damien said, as if he despised me in every single way possible. Only when the teacher finally handed out a piece of paper to everyone in the class, were we allowed to draw. I tried intensely to develop a picture in my head of what I wanted to draw. I had a fascination with airplanes and when I finally imagined a clear picture of the Boeing 787-9, I began to grab some supplies to draw with. I reached out with my tiny hands to grab some colored pencils and some crayons from the bin in the center of the table.
“TEACHER! JIAQI TRIED TO STEAL MY CRAYONS!” yelled Damien out of the blue. His neck craned towards Ms. Morey, like a hungry piranha. The entire class stared at me to the point that I felt uncomfortable being there. Confused, I was immobilized with my face bright red like a ruby statue. Did I do something wrong? Or perhaps the crayons actually belonged to him? The teacher, who tried to locate me, traversed through our small classroom, which was filled with small and compact furniture. She suddenly transformed into a ferocious creature with fiery horns and demanded for me to return the crayons to Damien. After a few minutes, she gradually calmed herself down, her emotions simmering down to a cool.
A few years later, I realized how clueless Ms. Morey really was. She must’ve believed Damien, when in fact the crayons weren’t owned by him. It’s frustrating being a first grade teacher, having to deal with every problem that arises, while making sure the students are satisfied. Ms. Morey tried her best to deal with the situation, but let her empathy for another student consume her, instead of treating everyone equally with respect and care.
Everything that ever happened in that classroom felt like a blur and before I knew it, I was out of that classroom, vowing to forget that experience.