THE PENNY PUB
The Moment I Live by Someone Else’s Rules, I Color Myself Inside their Lines
The rebel inside me woke at fifty
I was raised in Czechoslovakia, under communist rule. From the time I could hold a crayon, I was left at the kitchen table with a coloring book opened to a virginal spread. On the left would be a color image of the Little Red Riding Hood with her basket full of goodies and behind her, the big, bad wolf ready to spin lies.
On the right was a duplicate image of the same scene outlined in thick, black lines. The expectation was to copy the colors exactly as presented on the left. It never occurred to me, nor was it suggested, that I could color the forest anything but green, the sky blue, or Little Red Riding Hood’s cloak anything but blazing red.
I followed rules and did as I was told at home and school.
In first grade, the rule was to write with the right hand, regardless of whether a student was left-hand dominant. No exceptions. It left my best friend, Jana, in tears most days. There was no convincing the teacher that a method mandated by the state was damaging to the child. Parents fell in line and kids sucked it up.
The only right way to learn multiplication was by memorizing the times tables until not a…
