Daycare | Flash Fiction | Chicago Reader


Flash Fiction 2018

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It made sense later-the early fear and avoidance of sex-the whole not being able to urinate in public washrooms if someone stands next to me thing, but for a long time, it was buried beneath an otherwise happy childhood.

I was in high school when the memory came back. Something shook loose. Suddenly I recalled the day care center in Berwyn.

I recalled the director, a tubby, middle-aged man in a paisley jumpsuit. I remembered the first day. Standing near the entrance with my mother in her red velour jacket, he asked my name and then sang an old nursery rhyme:

Diddle Diddle Dumplin

Diddle Diddle Dumplin John

He went to bed with his

stockings on

one shoe off

one shoe on

Diddle diddle my son John

I can't piece it all together, but there are shards, points that stick out. My mom got a job, which meant I was dropped off at the center, joining a troop of other children, maybe 20 or 30 of us. I recall long, low cafeteria tables and eating Jell-O.

I recall the blue exercise mats on the floor where we lay down for naps and that time I closed my eyes and felt a tap on my foot. The director asked me to follow him to the washroom.

It gets murky here, thankfully so. I recall a Polaroid camera. Maybe that's all I need to recall-something that never belongs in a washroom, especially when an adult and a four-year-old child are by themselves.

I recall standing next to the urinal. The director was on the right. I remember him asking me to hold out my hand. I recall crying and flashes of light. Being told that if I said anything about this to anyone, I'd never see my mother again.

Later on, as an adult thinking: the genius of that.

I told no one.

In the coming days, I suffered in silence on the mat as I heard other children being taken to the washroom. The horrors that happened there. The cold terror of powerlessness.

One assumes there are pictures, perhaps in a file marked "Vintage." Grainy photos of tear-stained children of the early 70s doing the unspeakable.

I think I was only "tapped" a few times.

The second or third time, I resisted. I crawled beneath the cafeteria table and pissed myself out of fear.

My sister remembers that day, how I uncharacteristically had an accident and she and my mom had to wait for my clothes to dry in the center's dryer before we could leave.

After that, as far as I remember, I was not tapped again.

And I never said anything to anyone, not for years.

My mom was the world.   v

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Agenda Teaser

Performing Arts
July 31
Galleries & Museums
Bisa Butler: Portraits Art Institute of Chicago
November 16

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