I was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling, the beige squares blending together. The walls were a bright blue, and the drapes on the windows had little ladybugs dancing across the sheets. Above me, girls were braiding each other’s hair or gossiping with one another, paying no attention to their counterpart who was glued to the ground. I tried to drift off to sleep, but the cacophony of voices around me and the laughter bouncing off the walls made my eyes snap open. This was a daily activity for me, and at this point, I was starting to get used to it. 

In the ruthless world that is preschool, the game of “house” was the most important activity of the day. This revolved around the “kitchen”, which consisted of an electronic microwave that made loud popping noises (a true pinnacle of innovation), some pastel plastic pans and plates, and a wooden table. There were many roles to fill, but being the “mom’ was always reserved for one special girl: Eliza, who arbitrated this entire activity. She would choose the roles for everyone, and no one could complain. After all, we had always learned that “you get what you get and you don’t get upset”.

This pastime practically defined the social hierarchy. The girls that Eliza liked the most, and that were the most “popular”, would be chosen to be the “sisters”. The level below them were the girls that had to play “boys”, such as “dad” or “brother”. Men were clearly subordinate in this world Eliza had created, and that was the one fact the group of four-year-old girls could agree upon.. 

Lastly, lying at the bottom of the social pyramid, was me. I had the role of “dog”. My one job was to get down on my hands and knees, and crawl around a small portion of the room. I could never understand why this role was imposed on me. I certainly did not act like some kind of savage. I was a civil, polite preschooler, and yet for some reason, Eliza could never grasp that idea. It seemed as though I was destined to stay on the floor for eternity.

For some time, I obeyed. Every single morning, I would walk into the four brightly-colored walls that constituted my classroom, and prepare myself for an hour or two of the most boring, depressing game a preschooler had ever witnessed. Slowly, however, this activity became too tedious for me to handle. Being viewed as beneath my peers was not exactly a part of my agenda. 

So, one day, I stopped. I arrived at preschool extra early, ready for any fight that Eliza could possibly give me. I marched towards the kitchen, opened the microwave, and defiantly shoved a plate inside. I played with all the plates and pans, enraptured in a completely new experienced. I understood why no one would ever relinquish their position as “sister” or “dad”; this was the most thrilling and interesting activity I had ever experienced. By the time Eliza came into the room, I had “cooked” an entire three-course meal. When we met eyes, I expected her to shoot me a nasty retort. To my utter surprise, she simply nodded, as if out of respect, and helped me set the table. 

Through this ordeal, I felt liberated, the adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream. That was a feeling I could never give up. For the rest of preschool, no one was “dog” ever again. Forming a blissful utopia , everyone could now be a “mom” or a “sister”. I may have been on the ground once, but I got up, and stayed standing.