Occasional Scribbles

I have been doing a bit of self analysis lately, navel gazing really.  I feel that I am probably uniquely placed to do this – gaze at my own navel so to speak. And I have come to some fundamental conclusions.

I have often had a feeling that I don’t quite fit into this life.  That I don’t quite ‘get it’.  As if everyone has got the joke and I haven’t.  Looking back to my early school days I remember not quite understanding what everyone else effortlessly did.

One sports day, when I was about 8, my mother came along as did most mothers.  There was a feeling of general excitement as this was not an ordinary school day and parents had strayed into our own little environment, away from home.  I recall happily sitting in the sunshine on the rug my mother had laid out for our picnic, my brother sat beside me and we munched on egg sandwiches listening to the shouts of encouragement and cries of the winners of various ongoing races.

I suddenly had the awful feeling that perhaps I was supposed to be in the next race and turned worriedly to my mother to ask.  She turned toward me with an anxious and slightly irritated look and said, “surely you know which races you are in, I certainly don’t.  Run along and find out.”  I was mortified at the idea that if I went along to ‘find out’, I would look really silly if in fact I should have been in the race that was about to start, whereas if I stayed put, more than likely no one would even notice that I wasn’t there. I scampered off and spotted a friend who confirmed that I was in the race and pushed me to the line up just in time.  Of course I didn’t come anywhere near to winning.  I seem to remember a green badge awarded for losers like me for finishing or entering or something.  A seemingly shallow encouragement against others who had red ones for winning.

What I found odd about this was the fact that somehow, unlike everyone else, I had not looked on the board to see which races I might be in.  All the other children seemed to know exactly what they were doing, but not I.  It was highly likely that I had seen the board, saw some complicated chart of who was doing what and failed to understand it.  I definitely had difficulty with things like that.  For example, I could never (still can’t) tell my left from my right, could not read instructions or plans and found numbers exceedingly taxing.  (Still do).

It seems I was mildly dyslexic, though in those days, no one ever discussed it and certainly no allowances were made.  I also had trouble, (more than most) in writing in a straight line across the page.  My words started out ok but gradually drifted in a downwards slant which annoyed my teachers who thought I was untidy.  One teacher in particular, a Scot with a loud voice who I later realised was a bully, made much about this problem until I worriedly mentioned it to my parents.

My father quickly came up with a perfectly reasonable idea that I should ask the teacher if I could have an exercise book with lines instead of a blank one.  Buoyed up with courage and approval from Dad, I sat in class the next day and waited for a good moment to put in my request.  After giving the class instructions on an exercise we were to do, everyone settled down.  You could hear a pin drop it was so quiet.  I put my hand up and waited for her to notice.  After some time she finally did.  I saw at once a mixture of irritation and exasperation settle on her face and with an exaggerated sigh, she removed her glasses as if I was being such a nuisance and asked what I wanted.

I bravely stood up and said that as I was having so much trouble with my writing, my father had told me to ask if I could have a book with lines.  Her face turned angry and her voice dripped with scorn as she said, in a thunderous voice, “Oh did he now, Miss, well you can tell your father that I am the teacher here not him and no you may not have an exercise book with lines, sit down and get on with your work.”  Her cheeks were flushed with anger and she muttered something to herself and I, feeling tears at the back of my eyes, hurriedly sat down.  I was humiliated and shocked.  I couldn’t believe that anyone, let alone a teacher, would dare to challenge my father’s authority.  That was why I had mentioned that it was his idea in the first place.  A cowardly way of backing up my request which fell flat on its face, exposed for what it was, by her obvious contempt.

That evening when I saw my father he asked about the book.  I told him what the teacher had said and to my surprise he roared with laughter.