All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten by Robert Fulghum Page B

groups huddled in frenzied, whispered consultation, a tug came at my pants leg. A small child stands there looking up, and asks in a small, concerned voice, “Where do the Mermaids stand?”
    Where do the Mermaids stand?
    A long pause. A
very
long pause. “Where do the Mermaids stand?” says I.
    “Yes. You see, I am a Mermaid.”
    “There are no such things as Mermaids.”
    “Oh, yes, I am one!”
    She did not relate to being a Giant, a Wizard, or a Dwarf. She knew her category. Mermaid. And was not about to leave the game and go over and stand against the wall where a loser would stand. She intended to participate, wherever Mermaids fit into the scheme of things. Without giving up dignity or identity. She took it for granted that there was a place for Mermaids and that I would know just where.
    Well, where
do
the Mermaids stand? All the “Mermaids”—all those who are different, who do not fit the norm and who do not accept the available boxes and pigeonholes?
    Answer that question and you can build a school, a nation, or a world on it.
    What was my answer at the moment? Every once in a while I say the right thing. “The Mermaid stands right here by the King of the Sea!” says I.
    So we stood there hand in hand, reviewing the troops of Wizards and Giants and Dwarfs as they roiled by in wild disarray.
    It is not true, by the way, that mermaids do not exist.
    I know at least one personally.
    I have held her hand.

 
     
     

    T AXI
    N EW Y ORK C ITY. Winter. Corner of 52nd Street and Madison Avenue. Cold and wildly windy. Traffic jammed-slammed tight. An ill-tempered mood plagues the streets. But me, I’m waving politely at taxis. Clearly, I’m from out of town.
    Yellow Cab eases up in front of me. The driver, a massive Black lady wearing a pink nylon jacket and black turban, barks at me—a don’t-mess-with-me-expression on her face: “You want a ride or a date or what?” Yes, I want a ride, so I get in the back seat. She turns and barks at me again. “So. Just where’re you going, my man?”
    “I’m going uptown. Ninety-First and Fifth.”
    She laughs. “Not with me, you ain’t.”
    “Why not?”
    “The city is set like cement. Must be a fifty-foot brick wall across midtown. This town’s always locked up for something. A parade of anything—retired dogcatchers, the Ku Klux Klan, dentists, who knows what? Could be His Blessitude the Pope is still here. Could be the president is back in town. Could be Jesus Christ hisself, for all I know. He’s about the only one who hasn’t been here this year.”
    She laughs again. Big laugh.
    “So, I can’t get uptown?”
    “Not in this cab—not unless you go around by way of Chicago. But I’ll take you downtown as far as you want to go—Wall Street, New Jersey, Florida, or Rio de Janeiro. I mean as
far
as you want to go, my man. We could have some fun going downtown. But not
uptown
. No way today.”
    “Thanks. I like your turban, by the way. What country are you from?”
    Big laugh. “The turban is just my hat. I’m from the country of New York City. Bred here, born here, grew up here, still live here, can’t get away from here, and going to die here. But I keep thinking—somehow, someday—I’m leaving. But I know I’m dreaming. Maybe they’ll stuff me and put me in a museum with a sign under me that says here’s the dumbest broad who ever lived—she should have left New York a long time ago and was too slow to go.”
    “How come you don’t leave?”
    “Ain’t you got a list of things you shoulda done a long time ago?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, there’s your
why
, my man, and all the
why
there is. Who knows? Besides, it’s dangerous and weird outside New York. Tornadoes and the woods on fire and bears and rednecks and born-agains and slow-talking people and beauty queens and cowboys and Indians and all that. I’d rather take my chances in New York.”
    “You still don’t look very happy about it.”
    “Well, I’ve had a bad day, my