In grade school, only the Chosen Ones were allowed to write on the chalkboards. Standing up there before the class, you were immediately catapulted to VIP status as soon as that chalk hit the board. And even though you knew your chalkboard handwriting was nowhere near as neat and smooth as the teacher’s—let’s face it, often you would return to your seat and realize that your writing went downhill like an Olympic skiier—that chalk still feels like a magic wand in your 8-year-old hand.
Unless you got the scraps.
Yes, the selfish teacher would often save the long, elegant stick of chalk for him or herself, leaving you with the barely-there stubs. Suddenly, your cloud of privilege bursts; now you are just a shrimpy little kid who is trying not to scratch their fingernails on the chalkboard as the piece of chalk rapidly vanishes with each letter.
Writing with a small piece of sidewalk chalk is no picnic either, here you have two choice: you can either pinch the tiny grain of chalk and run the risk of broken nails and bloody knuckles when it slips, or palm the chalk and rub it against theground blindly, hoping to god you’re coloring inside the lines.
I say just toss those suckers out and pick out a fresh piece. Or better yet, throw them at the back of the teacher’s head*; serves them right for giving you chalk-leftovers.
*Note: I do not advocate violence in schools…wait until the school day ends, then sneak up on them while they are walking to their cars.