When I was seven years old, excitement bubbled inside me—I was finally going to school! My parents had decided it was time, and so we went to the first-grade classroom to enroll.
The room was alive with the promise of learning. Notebooks filled the desks, pencils and papers were scattered about, and bright Crayola crayons sat neatly atop the tables. In the center of it all was Ma'am Maestra, our teacher, sitting at her desk with an air of authority and warmth.
She greeted my parents, and after a brief conversation, she asked a few simple questions.
“Does he know how to write his name yet? Can he recognize the letters of the alphabet? Can he count a little?”
Mama and Papa exchanged glances. “Just a little,” they admitted.
Ma'am Maestra smiled and nodded. “Alright, I’ll accept him—but first, he needs to pass a small test. He must be able to touch his ear by reaching over his head.”
I was confused. Touch my ear? Over my head? That seemed like such a silly requirement. But apparently, it was the way they checked if a child was physically ready to start school.
I took a deep breath, determined to prove I could do it. Carefully, I lifted my hand, stretched my arm over my head, and reached for my right ear—but it didn’t quite touch. My heart sank. I wasn’t tall enough! My fingers hovered, just short of making contact.
But I refused to let this stop me. I wanted to go to school—I had to go to school. So, I came up with a clever little trick. Without hesitation, I slid my hand subtly behind my head, angling it just right, and—there! I grabbed my ear.
Ma’am Maestra chuckled. Maybe she saw through my trick, but she didn’t say a word.
And just like that, I was officially enrolled.
Since I had enrolled late, the class had already begun. Without hesitation, I stepped inside, eager to start my journey as a student.
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