Lauren's+Memoir

A PeaceBuilt Problem

 Guilt swirled in my five-year-old mind. I had no right to be singing the PeaceBuilder Pledge. I was no PeaceBuilder. I was wicked.

 The cruelly cheerful opening chords to the PeaceBuilder Pledge erupted from a radio perched upon Mrs. Higgins’ desk.

 I was nearing the end of my very first week of kindergarten at Thomas Jefferson Elementary School. I had absolutely adored my experience as a kindergartener. Or at least I had until the previous day. Just as we were packing up to return to our loving homes, Mrs. Higgins introduced a wretched song to us. The PeaceBuilder Pledge.

 “Soon, we will all be taking the PeaceBuilder Pledge every morning,” she announced brightly. “It will be lots of fun to learn the song and sing it together. It will help us all to become PeaceBuilders!”

 Pledge? Even as a kindergartener, I had a thorough understanding of the word “pledge.” Pledge meant promise. And a promise could not be broken. Ever. I had been scared to take the Pledge of Allegiance, but at least I had known that I would be complying with that one. The PeaceBuilder Pledge, well, that was another story.

 “I am a PeaceBuilder – “ the students began the following morning.

 My small hand burst into the air. Mrs. Higgins paused the music.

 “Yes, Lauren?” she asked, the thinnest trace of exasperation in her kind voice.

 “May I please use the restroom?” I inquired. I was proud for remembering the proper way to ask for the hall pass.

 “Of course,” Mrs. Higgins chuckled. She hastily signed her name and placed the hall pass in my hands. “But hurry back. You wouldn’t want to miss all of the pledge.”

 I nodded obediently and rushed out of the classroom. I glanced at the dark restrooms. I didn’t want to go in at all, but I couldn’t lie to my teacher. I stepped into the cold space. Instantly, a dim light flicked on. I stared at my face in the mirror. Dark hair. Green eyes. Faint freckles. This was not the face of a PeaceBuilder.

 I refused to cry, for there was no reason to. I hated to even see my lip quivering. I looked up at the grimy ceiling. Weak sun trickled from the dirty window. I ran my thumb along the glassy surface of the sink. The harrowing pledge echoed in my head. In a desperate attempt to distract myself from what loomed in Room 3, I filled my left hand with foaming pink soap. Gingerly, I dipped my finger into the froth. I drew bubbly whiskers on my face. I dabbed a dot of soap on my nose. I peered into the mirror again, and giggled softly.

 //I’m a cat//, I thought. I smiled at this. I filled my soapy hands up to my chin. It was nice to pretend to be a cat. A PeaceBuilding cat. But in reality, I was not a cat. I was a person. A bad person. A very bad person, indeed.

 On my very first day of elementary school, I had met Corrie. She was quite a few inches taller than me. Perhaps this was not a very significant detail, considering that most of my fellow students were taller than me. As a five-year-old, however, those few inches may as well have been three feet. Corrie had an oily black ponytail and piercing blue eyes. She already had seven permanent teeth hidden behind her chapped lips. Corrie was not particularly mean; in fact, she rarely spoke at all. But I found her scary. And PeaceBuilders did not find innocent children scary. I knew they didn’t. Therefore, I was not a PeaceBuilder. And I had no right to sing the PeaceBuilder Pledge.

 I wandered back to Room 3, relieved to find that the dreaded song had ended. Would I be able to leave class every time that Mrs. Higgins played the PeaceBuilder Pledge?

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"> It seemed that the answer was yes. Each day, I would leave Room 3 during the PeaceBuilder Pledge. But one morning, as I returned to class, the beginning notes of the PeaceBuilder Pledge spilled from that radio. I gasped in horror. Had I not waited long enough to go back to class? The other students chorused together merrily. I considered mouthing the words, but that would have been pretending to be a PeaceBuilder, which had to be the worst crime imaginable.

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"> As the song faded into silence, Mrs. Higgins began to speak. “What does it mean to be a PeaceBuilder?”

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"> “It means to always be a good person,” a girl named Alison retorted haughtily.

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"> “Not exactly,” Mrs. Higgins said gently. “Being a PeaceBuilder means giving up-downs. If something that you think is not kind, then as a PeaceBuilder, you don’t say it.”

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;"> She continued to speak about “seeking wise people” and “helping others,” but I could not focus after her first sentences. Was it possible that perhaps, I was a PeaceBuilder after all?

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif; font-size: 90%;"> She tapped a button on her radio. The song instantly came to life. And for the first time, I sang along.