I was thinking about assigned seats this week. An odd topic I know, but bear with me.
I don’t remember having my own little chair in kindergarten (and my apologies to those of you who just started singing, In my own little corner, in my own little chair … from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella starring Leslie Ann Warren). Kindergarten was only half-day and with playing and napping there wasn’t much sitting.
But I do remember my first wooden desk in first grade. It was a heavy thing, the writing surface sloped and hinged, lifting to reveal the cavity for fat pencils and crayons, paper and books. The desks were arranged in columns and rows that put my classmates and me in alphabetical order–at least for the first six-week grading period while Sr. Mary Mechtild learned our names … and our personalities and behaviors. Then we were reassigned according to who chatted the most, who liked to pester their neighbors, who didn’t listen, and who needed to sit closer to the blackboard because they didn’t yet know they needed glasses. Assigned seating was a way of creating order out of little bodies that liked to fidget more than they liked to sit.
Over the course of elementary and high school, columns and rows changed into teams, pods, and study partners (I don’t remember who my chemistry lab partner was but I’d have never passed old Mr. Patterson’s class without him! I’m not being disrespectful. There were two Mr. Pattersons – father and son – and both taught so one was ‘old’ and one was ‘young’.) and we were gradually allowed some input on where we sat. But the formula was still a way of maintaining a sense of familiarity and order.
Part of my thinking this week was wondering how those early years influenced our need or comfort in having assigned seats, even when we’re the ones choosing them. I’ve been lucky to have never worked in a situation where my assigned seat was a three-walled cubicle, small and confining. Though my first office while a youth minister was the parish hall furnace/storage room. Let’s just say it was ‘cozy’. At least it was mine and I liked it.
How many of us have a specific seat at the dinner table? Sleep on a certain side of the bed, even when we’re sleeping in a hotel? Have the perfect spot when taking in a movie or theater performance?
And what about church? For years Hubby and I sat in the same pew, surrounded by our pew partners–the same folks each week. One of them even had the hutzpah to tell interlopers they were in his spot if he ran late and someone else was sitting at the end of the pew in the third row when he arrived. He informed them with a chuckle, “That’s my spot.” then took a seat elsewhere, but the indiscretion was duly noted. Years ago, when work was being done inside our church, we had mass in the school gym and we sat on chairs. The priest opened with the blessing then laughed and shook his head. Even in that setting we parishioners had somehow managed to find spots that corresponded with our chosen seats in the pews – on the aisle, in the center, on the right or left, and certain rows from the front.
Hubby and I have new seats in church. After Covid shut down the parish for a while, and then mass times were reconfigured when we re-opened, we found that someone from another mass had also claimed ‘our’ seats. Yesterday I happened to look over and one of our former pew partners was in his old place. It was the first time he’d been back since Covid and I could hardly wait to slip into my old place and reconnect … which I did during the final hymn. I loved the look of surprise on his face when I touched his arm, the familiarity of being home.
So why all this musing on assigned seats. A couple of months ago an elderly friend was moved into an assisted living facility. It was not his decision. Gary is in his mid-eighties, never married, and up to recently very independent. In addition to being forced to give up his home, he also had to give up his car. Those changes would–and will be–tough for most of us. One of my Rowdy Readers is also a resident of this facility and during last week’s gathering she mentioned Gary was still having a rough time adjusting. He apparently went into the dining room and had the boldness to sit wherever he wanted. Several other residents and staff let him know that was so-and-so’s seat and he’d have to move to his assigned seat. While I understand this is a way of creating order out of bodies that like to fidget and wander more than they like to sit, and creates partnerships that help each other, I felt sorry for Gary. He’d already lost two of the main symbols of independence–living alone and driving–and now he couldn’t even choose where he sat to eat. I’m sure eventually he’ll fit in and find his place. Because after all, isn’t that what we’ve all been trained to do?
But I rather admire those who are bold enough to ignore the seating charts.
Happy Independence Day to all of you! I hope you have a festive, delicious, and safe day no matter how you celebrate. Or had if you celebrated over the weekend. See you next week.
A Writer's Window 