A memory from childhood
As soon as the bell rang for recess, the line formed. But before that bell, I was watching the clock on the wall of the 4th grade classroom as the seconds ticked towards the top of the hour. That was when the 6th graders would ring the bell letting the rest of us know it was time for recess. I couldn’t wait until I was in 6th grade and would get my turn to participate in that honored task of announcing the release from work and study and the brief freedom on the playground.
By the time I got there, the 6th grade girls had already checked out the jump rope from the P.E. teacher and staked their claim on the best jump rope real estate in the school–the sidewalk leading up from the parking lot to Downing Hall. The rope started turning and I took my spot at the end of the line, waiting my turn.
When I first witnessed this recess jump rope ritual, I wondered if I would ever be brave enough or good enough to be part of it. Those girls glided through the turning rope like it wasn’t even there. Sometimes someone would trip, and the collective groan could be heard as far away as the tetherball courts. Other times someone would exceed their previous record of jumps and the cheers would echo even further.
At first I watched from the sidelines, trying to understand the rhythm of waiting, jumping in, and jumping out. I listened to the beat of the rope against the sidewalk, imagining how to time my entry just right so that the rope wouldn’t stop. Then one day I decided to join the end of the line and try it for myself. That day seemed like a lifetime ago as I greeted the older girls who now knew my name and welcomed me to stand behind them.
The rules of the game were pretty basic–jump in, jump one more time than you did before, and jump out without tripping, and then get back in line and do it again. Anyone could get in line at any time, but usually the line was girls, with the boys standing by and watching. Each person kept track of their own progress, and if someone tripped and stopped the rope, the group would reset. There were a few girls who liked to turn the rope and were good at it, but sometimes they needed a break and someone else would step in. Sometimes a few of the ‘cool boys’ from 5th and 6th grade would act like it was not a big deal for them to stand in line. If one of the older boys did, sometimes a younger boy would stand behind them. If the boys successfully jumped through without tripping, they got back in line with all the suave of their celebrity status of older boys. If they tripped, they laughed it off and sauntered away to do something really cool…like play basketball.
When it was my turn, my heart raced as I watched the rope rhythmically slap the sidewalk. The kids behind me began to chant, “now! Now! Now!” with each click of the rope, letting me know when to jump in. My hands stretched out in front of me, palms out, rotating forward and backwards in a mirror to the jump rope, waiting for the exact right moment. Someone behind me called out, “Come on! No window washing! Just jump!” And so, with a deep breath, I took a step forward…and jumped.
The line behind me started counting. “1…2…3…4…” My heart raced as I focused on not tripping. My goal was 6 jumps. “5…6…” This was it. I ducked my head and lunged forward to get away from the rope that was coming up behind me. I made it. Encouraged by the cheer of those around me, I got back in line.