A Feather In My Cap

In Kindergarten, we six-year-olds learned quickly that the crowing symbol of educational achievement came in the form of brightly colored feathers. There were five main achievements that our ancient Kindergarten teacher wanted us to have accomplished at the end of our time together. Each time we met a requirement, we received a feather.

1. Tying our shoelaces.
2. Writing our name.
3. Coloring a picture in the lines.
4. Cutting shapes out of paper on the lines.
5. Citizenship.

It was a rigorous curriculum.

We worked all year on these tasks, throwing a little bit of folk dancing and pretend play at the wooden kitchen center into the mix to create a well-balanced education.

I excelled in the pretend kitchen area of the classroom, but that was the extent of my Kindergarten skills.

One by one the other students earned feathers for completing the requirements to prove that they were all accomplished Kindergartners. One by one, I butchered shape worksheets, tangled shoelaces until they had to be cut to be removed, and made a general mess of any standardized assignment.

I missed free time for several weeks to sit at a table with the teacher and practice writing my name. But every time, the S and the H would be backwards, with the As completely illegible.

My Rs were perfect, though. I rarely got credit for such well-crafted Rs. Those wounds are slow to heal.

In desperation, my teacher finally gave me a feather for managing to color a circle without going too far outside the lines. I also earned a citizenship feather after I cooked a seven-course pretend meal for my entire class.

On graduation day, we made circular bands out of paper, shaped to fit our heads perfectly. One by one, the teacher stapled the feathers that each child had earned onto their band.

Every other student had 5.

I had 2.

I started to cry and I couldn't stop.

As my teacher searched frantically for the package of feathers, I cried harder.

Even at such a young age, I didn't really want "gimme" feathers. I wished I could have earned my own.

And then something strange happened.

One of my friends pulled off his brightest, yellowest, sunniest feather and stuck it in my hat. Another little girl gave up her prized pink feather and placed it gently near the front of my band. Soon many other students were plucking their stapled on feathers off of their own hats and putting them in my hat.

I ended up with more feathers than anyone in the history of Kindergarten. And I was proud to bear the gifts of my classmates.

I hadn't cut along the lines perfectly. No one could read my name. I would search out lace-less shoes for the rest of my existence. But somehow all of those six-year-olds were able to see something of value in me and provide a visible, tangible celebration of that value. I've rarely felt that special.

Tonight I was feeling sorry for myself. I had shattered a Pyrex dish, burned a loaf of bread, under-coooked the bean soup for dinner, lost my temper with a tired and cranky three-year-old, and permanently abandoned the hope of ever having 100% of my laundry done at one time.

And then my Daddy called.

We chatted about mortgages, back pain, swine flu, our Savior, the scriptures, faith, family, memories, and more.

And at the end of our call, he told me how proud of me he is.

He said that I was a feather in his cap.

And I felt special, all over again.

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