|
My kids went back to school today. Last night there was sleepless nights, yearnings for the holidays not to be really over, and general malaise. Not from them though, from me.
Before long, we'll be back in a routine and have less opportunity to chat about stuff that matters when you're 14 and 9 and erm...some indeterminate age over 40...ahem.
During the holidays, we discuss matters of great importance, like why seals don't have fingers, or how a chicken feels after laying an egg, or internet bullying, or why it's nobody's business whether people of the same sex fall in love with each other, and why movies should have a special rating that warns kids if there's going to be any adults actually kissing.
But now that school has started back, we'll end up having to spend more time discussing homework and grades and schools and schedules, and though I know part of the deal of being a parent is to be responsible, I miss our lazy time together.
This morning , both of them shuffled off to school without a care, the 14 year old reflecting that he was glad the sky was overcast as it reflected what was in his heart. ( I swear he's been secretly reading Chekhov)
and the younger one clutching the Christmas present he forgot to take to his teacher last year.
And after they'd gone, I sat and drank my tea, part relieved that we'd managed to get back into the time schedule after such a long break, and slightly uneasy. I tend to worry more about them when they're at school.
When I was 5, I went to Muirfield Primary School. It was a decent enough school - a modern -ish building in the New Town of Cumbernauld. On paper it should have been adorable, and to a large extent it was: there was Mr Simpson, the Janitor, and Mr McRae, the school principle (who I seem to remember thinking was part-eagle.) There was Mr Rennie, the most adorable music teacher, and Mrs Borthwick who taught me to care about all things Norwegian.
But when I was 5, I had a teacher called Mrs Ramsay, who I seem to remember knowing didn't like me very much, and the infant mistress - or principle for the younger kids - who was called Mrs Dunbar.
(even now the name still terrifies me.)
Looking back I think that Mrs Dunbar definitely had "issues". She would take her leather belt and then make kids stand in front of the whole class as she hit them with it. Or if the teacher was annoyed with you, you could be sent to Mrs Dunbar's room where she would hit you there.
Crimes that caused kids between the ages of 5 and 7 to be hit several times with her leather belt included:
Leaving your schoolbag in the wrong place.
Not being able to whisper, properly.
Being caught smiling in a way that looked 'cheeky'.
Talking during prayers.
Moving during prayers.
Not having a handkerchief to wipe your nose.
Like I say, Mrs. Dunbar had issues.
Now for some reason, I managed to avoid Mrs Dunbar's belt.
One day though, in primary 2, when I was 6, Mrs Dunbar came into the classroom. And we all stood and said, "Good Morning Mrs Dunbar," as a weight of dread would drop in our stomachs.
And Mrs Ramsay said, " Good Morning, Mrs Dunbar, how can we help you this morning?"
And Mrs Dunbar smiled, so we knew someone was in trouble.
"Well, " she said, "Unfortunately Mrs Ramsay there's a child in this class who thinks they're better than everyone else."
And I remember deciding not to look across at Alan Sarrison, because of all of the people in my class that Mrs Dunbar liked to belt, she seemed to always want to belt him. I was thinking how much I'd hate to be in Alan Sarrison's shoes, when I heard my name being called.
"Lynn Ferguson, come out to the front of the class."
Every hair on my body stood on end. I was freezing cold with fear and simultaneously burning hot with embarrassment, as I walked to the front of the class.
I waited for the leather belt, but it didn't come.
Instead Mrs Dunbar said, "So Miss Ferguson, why don't you tell the rest of the class why you think you're better than everybody? Wouldn't you like to know Mrs Ramsay?"
"Oh yes I would, Mrs Dunbar," said Mrs Ramsay, and they both smiled like crocodiles.
"So tell us," said Mrs Dunbar, " Everybody is waiting. Aren't you class?"
"Yes, Mrs Dunbar."
"Why is it exactly that you think you're special?"
I'd love to say I had something smart on hand, some witty repost, some snarky anarchic remark, but I didn't.
I was 6 years old and terrified . So I cried, and shook my head as they kept asking for the answer to a question that I didn't even understand I had.
Then they let me sit back down.
For years and years I held that incident in my head. I didn't want to talk about it, because even though I was older, it still felt horrible. I thought it might stand out as being the most humiliating moment of my life - although of course that was before I mistakenly undertook the role of Maw in Oor Wullie the Musical. ( Every cloud has a silver lining.)
The first time I told that story I was mortified. The next time, I was more kind of annoyed. Then, I wanted to be able to time travel so that I could have gone back to Muirfield Primary school to start a revolution.
Mostly though, whenever I tell that story now, it is to out myself.
What I've learned from story class is that there are sequences of events in everybody's life that they keep in a sort of time capsule. It seems like we each have incidents which we pick up as 'defining moments" except in my experience, those defining moments tend never to be the time when we were the hero, or when we did the best thing that made someone else so happy. They're the moments of shame, sorrow or bewilderment.
What that wicked old woman did to me was horrible, but the way that I've tormented myself with the sequence of events over the years, was worse.
Whenever I was about to challenge myself to try something new, to go out on a limb, or just take a chance, that same voice would come into my head. "Why is it exactly that you think you're special?"
Often people talk about the therapeutic aspect of learning storytelling, and I think that generally comes from just taking an old story out of your head and giving it an airing.
Why didn't I know what do to or how to answer Mrs Dunbar? Simple. Because I was 6.
And what had I done wrong? I had irritated a lunatic.
When I keep a story hidden, I remember it like I am 6. When I tell the story, I can tell it that I was 6, and that makes all the difference.
Not every story told in class is traumatic, just like not every story has a Scottish, belt-wielding, sociopath but the one thing they all have in common, is that they always feel better when they're told.
Beginners' Course starts this Thursday. If you have a story to tell, it's probably time to tell it.
Peace and love,
Lynn
xox
|
