Raincoat

It’s a Monday morning in August of 1962, the first day of second grade, and I can’t wait. I pull on my shirt and shorts and dash to the kitchen. My Cheerios taste better; the milk is colder and sweeter. I’m tying my shoes, but my mind is somersaulting with so much possibility that I barely see what I’m doing. There will be math! There will be reading! There will be recess! Twice! 

I push open the front door and sit on the stoop to wait for my friends – we all walk together and I’m the last stop – when my mother calls from behind me.

“Wait a minute, Michael.”

Mom is holding a yellow raincoat open, armholes exposed, like how a policeman on TV holds handcuffs behind the person he’s arresting. My life passes before my eyes.

“No! It’s not raining!”

Not only is it not raining, the sky is spotless blue. And it’s hot – pushing 80 degrees at 7:30 in the morning and humid to boot.

“Put it on.”

“But it’s not raining. Why do I have to put it on?”

“Put it on.”

“There aren’t even any clouds.” I point to the sky. “Can’t I just carry it?”

“Put it on.”

I turn and obediently thrust my arms into the raincoat. She whirls me around to face her and snaps every fastener from the bottom up. At the top, it pinches my neck like the shirt I have to wear to church with a clip-on tie.

Then she pulls out the hat. This is too much. I pity myself for the injustice I bear, but my mother is like the Emperor of China. Pitiless, her will absolute. She puts the hat on my head and snaps the fasteners in front. Now, I’m a yellow vinyl tent. All that remains of me is an oval from my eyebrows to the middle of my chin. My hands strain to escape a cave of heavy sleeves. Sweat runs down my face.

I look up. My friends have arrived, two boys and a girl, neighborhood playmates. Their mouths are the shape of a Cheerio. Their eyes are wide as Tweety Bird’s. I step forward to meet them on the sidewalk. They don’t say anything. They are watching my mother, waiting for her to go inside. Once she does, they burst out laughing.

I begin toward school, conscious I’m dressed like a movie sailor on a storm-tossed deck, clutching the mast to prevent going overboard, even though the sky is completely blue. My friends stop laughing and just walk, grinning, dancing around me. Like me, they are happy to return to school. Me in the ridiculous raincoat is just extra – an unexpected treat.

The further we walk up the hill, the further I am from the gravitational pull of my mother and the angrier I become. Once we top the hill and I descend where my mother can’t see me, I unfasten the hat and the raincoat. My friends cheer. I smile. They are with me – it’s us against the parents. The embarrassing raincoat is in the past. I can’t wait to get to school.   

It’s been a perfect day. Math was great; recess was great. Lunch was great; reading was great. Second recess, again, was great. I remember most of the kids from last year. The teacher is way nice. I am sad to see the little hand pointing at three and the big hand inching towards twelve. 

We go to the coat closet to get our things. I hear thunder and look through the windows. The sky is gray. The rain starts and quickly becomes a pour. I look at the peg where my yellow raincoat hangs. I look at my classmates.

None of them have raincoats. Just me. I put on my raincoat, so proud I could bust. My mother knows things no one else knows.