October 5, 2025
- Donna Zolkowski
- Oct 5
- 3 min read
Welcome to My Childhood Circus 🎪
When I was a kid, my mom, brother, and I lived with my grandparents — which sounds nostalgic until you realize it was like living inside a never-ending family reunion with zero exits.
My grandpa had a boxer named Sport, the self-appointed household security guard. From his bed, he could monitor all three exits — front, back, and side — like a furry CIA agent. Whoever left him alone paid the ultimate price: a strategic poop pile placed squarely in front of their bedroom door. Revenge with precision.
At one point, fourteen people lived there. Fourteen! And Sport never missed a target. His bowel control was better than most people’s self-control.
Meanwhile, my brother adored this dog so much he shared his baby bottle with him — one sip for the baby, one for the dog. That’s not “cute bonding”; that’s “future stomach flu.”
The Night My Brother Prayed to Be Dumb 🙏😂
One night, he knelt for his bedtime prayer:
“Our Father who art in heaven, howls be thy name… I will be dumb.”
And the universe said, “Sure, kid.”
Moral of the story? Be careful what you pray for — it might actually happen.
Love you, bro. (Still blocked, though. Some things are permanent.)
From Germany to Gibberish
My childhood was a road trip without a map: Germany Rhode Island New Jersey Oregon back to New Jersey and finally Louisiana, where people spoke a language that vaguely resembled English marinated in Tabasco.
At ten years old, I sat in class while my teacher gave spelling words that might as well have been Klingon. Every word rhymed, every sentence hummed, and I’m sitting there thinking, “What planet is this?”
It was 1970 — back before teachers used “inclusive learning methods.” Instead, they had the A Row, B Row, and — my seat of honor — The Dumb Row.
I was too embarrassed to tell my mom. I just brought home report cards with D’s and something called Foster. (I’m still convinced that meant “God help this child.”)
The Great Chicken Pox Escape 🐔
Then the heavens intervened. I got the chicken pox, which turned out to be the best disease of my life. While I was home scratching, we moved to a city where people actually spoke English.
When I arrived at my new school, I nearly cried the first time I understood a teacher. It was like the angels had traded their harps for phonics.
“Yeah, Man” — My Linguistic Stand-Up Debut 🎤
Before I left Louisiana, one final act of confusion sealed my fate.
Teacher asks me something I can’t understand. The kid behind me pokes me to answer. So I blurt out:
“Yeah, man, what do you want?”
The class went silent. The teacher stared like she was watching the end of civilization. I’m sure when she reached heaven, Jesus said,
“She wasn’t rude, honey. She just didn’t speak Cajun.”
From Dumb Row to Smarty Pants 🎓
Thankfully, my next teachers were amazing — patient, kind, and fluent in English. They helped me catch up, work hard, and even thrive. Sure, I stayed a smart-mouthed little overachiever, but at least now I knew what language I was sassing in.
Final Thoughts from The Dumb Row Kid 💁♀️
If there’s a moral here, it’s this:
Dogs remember betrayal.
Prayers need proofreading.
Chicken pox can save your academic life.
Here’s to Sport the Boxer, the Dumb Row, and every misunderstood kid who learned to laugh at the chaos.
Written by Donna Zolkowski
📸 Photographer | Storyteller | Graduate of The Dumb Row | Professional Survivor of Family Chaos
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