For some, Kindergarten registration is a moment of joyful exuberance.  The hope of the future rides on the extraordinary prospect of turning five years old.  Our first stroll into the local elementary school was punctuated by a prolonged photo shoot at the front entrance.  Jackson cooperated long enough to pose with mom and dad, then with other strangers who happened to be progressing through the parking lot.

We entered the building with some level of difficulty given the pure weight and volume of documentation necessary for registration and enrollment.  Once inside, we were immediately asked to present “proof” of our existence and demonstrate that we had not arrived from some adobe hut in northern New Mexico.  So began the long process of our rightful claim upon the high ground of public education.

With Gestapo intensity, the nice lady at the front desk demanded our “papers,” which included items such as our driver’s license, mortgage statement, utility bill, immunization record, dental record, vision record, medical record, and birth certificate.  All of this begs a number of questions.  If you have a cavity, are you still allowed to enroll in Kindergarten?  Is a four-year old automatically disqualified if he or she is near-sighted?  And why a birth certificate?  The kid’s standing in front of you, for cryin’ out loud.  Does a child need proof that he or she successfully navigated through the birth canal in order to learn to read and write?  What if the parents couldn’t find their child’s birth certificate?  That poor lad might never enter the promised land of first grade due to a technicality:  existential disqualification.  Imagine the conversation on the way home.  “I’m sorry, Johnny.  You won’t be able to go to school.  Mom and dad can’t prove that you were born, so please return to your habitat when we get home.”

Once we passed inspection and endured the delousing process, we were approached by a school staff member.  He brushed by us and stooped over to speak to Jackson.  After a lengthy visual assessment, he asked Jackson to accompany him down the hallway.  I turned and followed them, as any good parent would, but was immediately rebuffed.  “You stay,” he quipped, “Only the boy.”  “Yes, Tonto,” I mumbled in compliance.  I sat down and began to wonder if the school administrators had somehow accessed my criminal background record and wanted to speak to Jackson about what they found.  It finally occurred to me that I’ve only been convicted of speeding . . . a few times.  Perhaps I would be excluded from the classroom but I was convinced there was hope for Jackson.

While contemplating the myriad possibilities leading to my demise, I began to notice that other children were emerging from the dark recesses of the interrogation hallway where Jackson had been taken.  I breathed a sigh of relief.   Moments later, Jackson bounced around the corner followed by his mysterious escort.  “He passed,” came the report.  I was presented with a piece of paper with letters and numbers clearly written by a small child.  As the man spun on his heels and retreated into the darkness from where he first appeared, I glanced down at the paper.  Though I couldn’t quite understand why the document was littered with skulls and crossbones, I knelt in front of Jackson and whispered, “What did that man talk to you about, son?”  Jackson fixed his eyes on mine and in his most serious four-year old intonation answered, “I can’t tell you dad.  Or I’ll have to . . .”.  “Mr. Kelly,” echoed the interruption.  “Here’s your driver’s license and mortgage statement back.”  Startled, I stood and retrieved my belongings and headed through the front door.  We emerged into the sunlight when Jackson complained, “Dad, you’re squeezing my hand too hard.”   Indeed, I was.  Graduation exercises for the class of 2025 will be here soon.  I hope I can find my birth certificate by then . . . or else.