Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

Four words. Four simple, nonsensical, pointless words. Ziggy. Zaggy. Zoom. Zoom. The four words that have continued to haunt me since 1979. The four words that made it known mistakes would not be tolerated, and any sense of normalcy or mediocrity or adequacy was simply not encouraged, accepted, or allowed.

In 1979, I was in kindergarten, and my crippling panic and anxiety was already well established and in full force (though it would be DECADES before it was actually acknowledged and successfully treated). Since I can remember, I experienced severe stomachaches, night sweats, day sweats, pounding heart, sweaty palms, debilitating insomnia, and fingernail biting on the daily. What a delight I was! The thing is, I hid it so well, no one ever knew because I didn’t want to be “different” or let anyone know I was suffering the way I was. Not only did I already know that trauma was exclusive to my mom (and her only), I was desperate for approval amongst my peers to fill the lack of it I received at home. I didn’t want to be singled out because I was constantly stressed, which only managed to stress me out even more.

I knew my role, and that role was to not make waves, make sure mom was appeased, and do whatever it takes to make other people happy. And I was really good at it! As troubling as people-pleasing can be, I know that, in this life, I have made the people I love (and even those I don’t know well!) feel special with sincerity, and have never gone out of my way to be mean to anyone for any reason, and that is something I will never be ashamed of. It also means I developed a stress ulcer by third grade, requiring nauseating medicine that tasted like chalk, which I had to take during the school day, thus singling me out for all the reasons I tried to keep secret. But I digress.

Ms. Chamberlain was the only teacher for the ‘gifted’ kindergartners and she’d been doing it forever by the time my class reached her. She did real estate on the side, which would quickly become her main focus throughout our school year, and her joy for teaching was clearly lacking by the time we entered her lair. It was clear she was burnt out (and look, I get it, and I don’t blame her. I was a teacher, and it’s not for the weak), but boy, was she mean. I taught middle school and high school and I don’t know if anyone knows this, but those ages are WILD, especially when it comes to school, and I still couldn’t imagine putting my beloved students through what she did us.

Every day, we would do your standard curriculum. Numbers, colors, shapes, etc. I remember one time, she asked the class what letter could also sound like ‘S.’ Always eager to please, I raised my hand, she called on me, and I said, “F?” She was visibly irritated. I agree, it didn’t make any sense, but I wanted to be involved! The letter was C, and none of us got it. Again, we were five!

It also didn’t help that I was left-handed. People are always shocked when I tell them that being left-handed in the late 70s and early 80s (and even today!) was super frowned upon, to the point the select few of us were singled out, given green rubber scissors (which were the absolute WORST! You could never actually cut anything, then the teacher would get mad because the paper was so choppy after every attempt), and dealt every eye roll known to man. When I was in fourth grade, I broke my left wrist. My teacher had no mercy and insisted I still participate in handwriting (today, known as cursive, but I don’t even think that’s a word students understand anymore), so I adapted and learned to write with my non-dominant hand. I am only ambidextrous out of necessity. But you should see my right-handed penmanship. It’s something to behold!

As was the standard at the time, part of our day was dedicated to coloring. Pictures of animals, buildings, autumnal scenes, sunshine, florals, etc. At recess, which is typically a time to take a break, regain steam, take a deep breath, and get ready for the rest of the day ahead, Ms. Chamberlain would instead give each of us a stick of chalk and instruct us to draw a circle on the playground. If said circle contained a ‘tail’ (meaning, if you drew a circle but finished with a mark inside or outside the circle upon completion), it was wrong, and you had to do it again.  

When we returned to the classroom after being berated for failing to draw a perfect circle, we were given crayons and paints to make whatever pictures were in front of us perfect. And there was a song. To this day, I have to remind myself that it is okay to color outside the lines, and that those who do are typically the most mentally stable people walking among us.

But first.

One day (out of the five we were in her care), Ms. Chamberlain asked us, as a group, to hold up six fingers. As expected, the majority of my class held up their right hand with five fingers, and their left with their thumb. Well, I’d already failed at the ‘sounds like S’ test, but I refused to give up the good fight of proving I belonged in this ever-elite program.

I knew how to count to six, and I knew there was more than one way to hold up six fingers. So instead of going along with the rest of the class, I held up my index, middle, and ring fingers on each hand. One, two, three…four, five, six. It was six fingers and I was sure of it. When I tell you this did not go over well with Ms. Chamberlain. The look on her face would have you believe I had just clubbed a baby seal and wore its skin as a trophy. Her eyes became black, just like a shark, and her lips pursed so tight it looked like she had just eaten a lemon raw. She stopped the class, looked me square in the eye, and through gritted teeth and a tone I only ever recognized from my mother, said, “Do. It. RIGHT.” But, hadn’t I? She said to hold up six fingers, and I was holding up six fingers!

As I held back tears while the whole class stared, I retracted the three fingers on each hand and dutifully put up five on my right hand, and my thumb on my left. I felt so embarrassed at the time and I could feel my face burning as my tummy began to rumble. I cried myself to sleep that night, because I couldn’t figure out what I had done to make her so angry. Now? I remain furious on behalf of that little girl who did absolutely nothing wrong.

Needless to say, I was on her shit list, and she made it no secret. Just another quick reminder here that we.were.five. FIVE! Wasn’t kindergarten supposed to be a joyous time where kids learn how to “do” school (none of us are born knowing what to do the moment we enter a classroom. We’re also learning to deal with separation anxiety, while trusting that our parents will, indeed, be back for us at the end of the day)? I mean geez lady, give us a break! My standardized (dare I say biased) tested IQ had nothing to do with being a sensitive little kid who just wanted to be liked and cared for!

An activity like coloring in those early elementary years should be fun and exploratory and free from scores or judgment. I firmly hold the belief you cannot grade creativity. Putting a letter on someone else’s attempt to express themselves is counterproductive at best, and soul-crushing at worst. Who cares if the whole picture was colored with aqua blue, or sunshine yellow, or even burnt sienna? This is the time to let the juices flow, be yourself, and spend some well-earned energy on less structured assignments. At least in my book. Certainly, learning to color within the lines has its place, and serves as more of a metaphor for things that present later in life, but drilling it over and over, to the point hands are shaking out of fear the scarlet red fruit might have a ‘tail’ seems excessive.

We sang this song while coloring. Over and over. (We also had to be sure to use only appropriate colors. Nothing drab or dull; everything had to POP!) Here’s how it went:

                                     “Don’t Color Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

                                       Don’t Color Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

                                       Don’t Color Ziggy Zaggy Zoom Zoom

                                                 But Color STRAIGHT!”

And when she said straight, she meant it. No sideways coloring. No different patterns. Total uniformity. The fact I still love to color is a wonder! Even though I sometimes find myself correcting “mistakes” or abandoning a picture because I actually colored in the wrong direction. But I’m working on it!

It’s bonkers the things that stick with us. This is a song I learned 47 years ago, and it still plays clear as day in my head. It goes to show you how much words really matter, and it’s our choice whether to put positive or negative ones out there. I will always choose positive. Regardless if it’s self-serving or not, making others feel good about themselves makes me feel good about myself. I don’t see that as a bad thing! I often wonder whether Ms. Chamberlain ever did any self-reflecting on her teaching style, or if, at the end of the day, she wrapped herself in her gold Century 21 realtor’s jacket and sold her methods elsewhere. I would assume she was wildly successful in sales. I would buy from her just to avoid her wrath.

Thankfully, for all the littles who came after, she retired from teaching after our school year. We were the last to serve under her regime. What I took away from that fateful year was never let anyone tell you how to put those six fingers up, and color as Ziggy, as Zaggy, and as Zoom Zoom as you want. Life is too short to stay within the lines.