I really don’t know what was going through the heads of the people who designed the playgrounds for the Los Angeles School District. Bottlebrush does not constitute a shade tree. Asphalt does not welcome a falling knee. Drinking fountains should not be inaccessible
Ivanhoe Elementary had playgrounds that were divided by age. The little kids had the upper yard and the big ones, the lower playground. The lower field was dominated by two large handball structures. Adjacent, were the rings. It was here that I had my front tooth chipped by a girl named Hannah. Rather large, she swung into me as I was shimmying up a pole and slammed my mouth into the pole. She didn’t even get in trouble!
The rings and the monkey bars took effort and the slow build-up of calluses. I can’t tell you how many days I came home to Angus Street with blistered palms—desperately waiting for them to heal and toughen so I could excel on the bars. The boys were the best at this, and the strongest. Girls also had the disadvantage of showing their underwear when upside down.
One blistering day, the kind where the asphalt shimmered in the heat, a new teacher was on recess duty. She walked over to the monkey bars and watched. Within minutes her stiletto heels sunk into the asphalt. When she finally extricated herself, there was a permanent rut.
The games we played were sometimes cruel. Dodge ball is not a kind game, no matter how you try to explain it. Picking teams could be ego shattering. Kick ball is just like baseball, but with a large inflated red rubber ball and no bats. It left your hands covered in a layer of patterned dirt. It was my favorite game until a new girl joined our sixth grade class. Jeanette was the Dolly Parton of Ivanhoe. The boys looked at her in a way that was new to me. I felt sorry for her. When she ran the bases her breasts flip-flopped and heaved through her sweaters and the boys made fun of her. I was not looking forward to puberty.
Occasionally we weren’t allowed out for recess at all because the air quality was so poor. These were smog days. My lungs hurt when I breathed deeply and we were left to play games like Simon Says and something else that involved the phrase “heads down, thumbs up” while sitting at our desks.
After school, the playground became a different place altogether. A young college student would man the “ball box”, wear a whistle and be idolized. The kids who stayed after school learned how to make lanyards from colorful plastic, weave potholders from elastic cotton bands and design pictures made out of kidney beans and lentils.
Ten years after ‘graduating” from Ivanhoe, I became the college student with the key to the ball box.
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