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The primary problem with color study was the colors
By Debbie Farmer
The week my daughter started kindergarten, I should have been suspicious when the teacher sent home a note that read:
Dear Parents, I know how anxious you are to take part in your child's education. For the next two weeks we will be studying colors. Each day your child will receive a colored piece of paper and a short homework assignment. Please help them complete it and send your child to school dressed in the color the following day.
I wanted to be an active and involved parent, so when my daughter came home with a square of yellow paper, I went to the store and bought her a cute yellow dress with a matching bow and socks. Then I told her everything I knew about yellow.
"It is a primary color," I said. "It also means yield. It's the color of the sun and ducks, and it once was the color of the squash and bananas in the crisper."
Blue Day followed. We spent an hour looking around the house for something blue, but all we could find was a batch of penicillin growing on the cheese in the refrigerator. She drew a picture of the sky, and I sent her to school dressed in denim.
The next day, we were late for school because my daughter wanted to wear her ballet leotard and feather boa instead of the cute red dress I bought. After negotiating for more than an hour, I finally talked her down to a T-shirt with a cool ketchup stain. As soon as she was dressed, I realized we hadn't drawn any red objects on her homework paper, so I scribbled on it with my lipstick as I ran to the car.
By Thursday, I had learned my lesson and dressed her in green leggings and a sweater while she was still asleep. She completed the homework sheet in the car on the way to school by digging around on the floor board for an old piece of gum to tape to the paper. I started to wonder if my efforts were really enhancing her education.
Each day became more difficult.
"That's not white," she said, pointing to a shirt I pulled from her drawer. "It's light gray."
"It's 'Farmer White,'" I said. "Made from a mixture of pure white, black, brown and navy blue cotton fabric thrown in hot water and laundry detergent. It was invented by your father."
On Purple Day, she insisted on going to school in my old negligee tucked into sweat pants and a pair of patent leather shoes. The only accessory missing was an empty beer bottle in a brown paper bag. I began to hate public education.
By Orange Day, my daughter was out of secondary-color clothes, so I pulled a pink shirt out of her closet and handed it to her. "This is orange," I lied.
When my daughter finally came home from school and announced she was finished studying colors, I felt like throwing my arms out to my sides and bursting into song like Julie Andrews.
"The teacher said we could wear our favorite color tomorrow for the rainbow party," my daughter said. "Why are you dancing like that, Mommy?"
"No reason. Which color would you like to wear?" Anything had to be easier than orange.
She twisted her hair around her fingers and thought for a moment.
"Cerulean," she said.
I couldn't wait for summer vacation.
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
