Grade 3, MS. Bernstein and Me

It was in this year that someone did me a service.  They didn’t have to but they did and I am eternally grateful. This is the way I choose to say thank you.  

I have thought about grade three and my trips to the museum for over 40 years. I could talk of the rumors that were going on at the time, or I could talk about the thoughts a little boy gets when he has a crush on a teacher, but I won’t.   

I would rather like to say this,  I learned in that year that no one is perfect.  We all make mistakes and the mistakes come in all forms and have different consequences.   

No one should be placed upon a pedestal, it is not fair to them and you who are doing the  looking up will inevitably be disappointed.   

Maybe it is better to just appreciate the good in a person and be thankful that your paths crossed and forgive their transgressions where possible and to simply walk away when the sins are to great to forgive.   

This is a story of a lady who taught in my school her name is Nancy Bernstein.  Ms. Bernstein was never my teacher, but she was a confidant and a friend.  Ms.  

Some of her former students take the time to say thank you

 

Bernstein was not perfect, but for the most part, her heart was in the right place. Ms. Bernstein gave of herself 110% above and beyond the call of her duties as school teacher and for this I know a lot of children now men and women who thank her.   

 I left grade 3 to the end because my teacher in grade 3 was the same wonderful lady who was my teacher in grade 2, so there was nothing new there and partially because I did not know what story I wanted to tell of  Ms. Bernstein.   

I was invited to her retirement party and unfortunately I could not attend. I wanted to read something then that I thought best summed up Ms. Bernstein for me and didn’t get the chance.  I will put it to you now as I wrote it for that night, I believed every word then and still believe right now.  

It is said that a child from birth to six years old can be molded into anything the adult wants given the appropriate stimuli and teacher. A child’s mind is like a huge sponge soaking up all it sees, hears, smells and feels, my mind was no different.  Its brain then stores all of this information and uses it as it is needed. How this information is used, is usually determined by who or what has had the most influence in the child’s early years.   

Grade Three   

Grade three, I’m eight years old, my mind is wide open and my heart is full of dreams. Miss Bernstein was not my teacher but, I remember her as some what sad and as the romantic of all the teachers I knew. I was very fond of her and I still think of her in an adoring way. I remember holding Miss B’s hand and walking with her in the school yard and talking about things like oral hygiene and the importance of being clean.   One day while I was in the schoolyard, during one our talks, she asked me and a few of the kids if we had ever been to a museum and we all answered no. The look on Miss B’s face to me, said that this was the tragedy of the under privileged child. I later understood the importance of what was next to happen. Miss B promised us right then and there that if it was within her power that we would see a museum if only once in our lifetime.  

Two months after we first talked about the museum, she told a few other boys and me that we were to meet her at the school that coming Saturday because we would be going to the Redpath Museum.  As I remember it we walked and talked all the way there.  Miss B told us the does and don’ts of the museum as we walked.   We went into the museum and were immediately sent into the land of awe.   From the outside of that place to everything I saw inside I would never have guessed how much the experience would impact me. Once inside we saw every animal we could have imagined and some we could have never imagined.  They were all stuffed and had a name tag and a plaque explaining briefly all about them. The same thing was true of the insects and prehistoric creatures. The tour took about two hours. Once outside we sat on the grass and ate some sandwiches that Miss B had brought with her.  

We discussed what we had just seen and she explained that the next time we would be going to another type of museum. This museum she explained would be filled with paintings and other works of art, created by the great artist’s of the past, most of who were no longer living. We all walked with her dropping off to go home as we passed close to our houses.  

I bragged and boasted so much about all I had learned and all that I had seen at the museum, that when it came time to go to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts I was again allowed to go. I preferred the other type of museum, but the history of the artists held my attention, although the talk of how they mixed their paints and such threaten to put me to sleep.  

Due to circumstance beyond my control as a young boy and of a rather personal nature I was unable to continue my friendship with Miss Bernstein.  I guess you could say that she was my 1^st school yard crush and I could not look her in the eye once I realized it, let alone hold her hand.  The very idea of it all was way too embarrassing for me.  We no longer walked and talked in the schoolyard, but I was left with a love for history and museums that I would never have had known had Miss Bernstein not taken the time out of her life to take us there.  I was the first person in my family to go to a museum of any sort, but not the last.  I have loved visiting museums thanks to this experience and have passed the love of using these learning tools on to my children. I for one think this is what teaching is all about.  

 The time I held her hand was brief, but the effect of her need to share and her love of people and children have stayed with me a life time.   Thank you Miss Nancy Bernstein.  

Ms. Bernstein was supposed to help with the editing of my book, but I think she has changed her mind since our agreed deadline has come and gone without a word.  I can’t say I blame her, the book pulled no punches and may have been a little more than she cared to deal with.  Oh well,  just another disappointment I will have to learn to deal with.

Grade 7, Mr. C

I thought what this man did and what he said was only to my class the one year, but boy was I wrong.  I know through talking to other guys and girls in my class and the two classes ahead of mine that his opening speech to the class was the same every year he taught at Royal Arthur School.  Mr. C wasn’t having a bad year, he was having a bad career.  Teachers, parents, adminstration all stood by as Mr. C,  bullied, strapped and played mind games with his students.  I played in his after school activities sports program.  Here the game of basketball was played with none of the games rules.  It was nick named murder ball.  We got hurt and got up and played some more.  Not to play meant you were ostracised in class and made to feel like you were a sissy.  If you do not believe me ask Gordie Linus or Robin Boyd or Ronald Blake.  These 3 guys were in my grade 7 class and did not pass the Mr. C  man test.  Mr. C didn’t just use the strap as a punishing tool he used it in an effort to break you.  I honestly believe he enjoyed the power of it all.  Mr. C would start with his jacket on and by time he finished he would have his jacket off, his shirt sleeves would be  rolled up and be perspiring heavily.  I always wondered what my life and others in my shoes would have been like if the toss of the coin had put me in Ms. C ’s,  grade 7 class instead of his. There is just too much that he did, so I will just let you read about it from an excerpt in my book.

Grade Seven And Mr. C

 Mr. C was a perfect example of what a teacher should not be.  Mr. C was a man who had wanted to be a professional athlete, but became a teacher because he needed to eat. He was very talented in quite a few sports but not gifted enough to enter into the pro ranks. He took his frustrations out on his students, and he thought he was too good to be stuck in a ghetto school teaching a bunch of backward blacks and poor white trash. The first day of school, the very first class, he set the tone for the school year. This is what he said; “Good morning my name is Mr. C, most of you will never graduate high school so I will be baby-sitting you people and seeing that you don’t cause any problems for the school.” We will concentrate on the things you will need to get by in life and not what the government thinks you need for high school. He also promised that anyone with a sixty-percent average by mid-term would be passed no matter how his or her government exams scored.

This was very demoralizing and gave me the impression that a good education wasn’t important for people like me.  For me a bad habit was in motion. For the first time in my school life I was not expected to do my best at all times. This was not however the worst thing about this man.  His impact on the average male student was large.  Young dumb and full of cum is a saying used at the time that accurately described our state of being at the time.

He made you feel like if you didn’t play rough sports or you didn’t fight you were less than a man.  He was a sadistic bastard who turned the strong against the weak for what seemed solely for the pleasure of watching the latter squirm.  We all vied to be the toughest, we all wanted to be considered men.  No it was more than that; we all needed to be men in Mr. C’s eyes. We were scared of him not physically but more the way he would single you out and get the rest of the class to turn against you. 

If he had one saving grace it was the way he taught history.  When he talked of battles you felt like you were on the field.  I loved listening to him talk and would just close my eyes and let my imagination run wild.  We had something in common Mr. C and I, we both didn’t care for Mr. W, to put it mildly. Mr. C would goad Mr. W into helping him with the supervision of after school activities.  We played Stone Age basketball, murder ball and football in the schoolyard. Unlike basketball, volleyball and football in the real world the games we played had no rules and wore no safety equipment. 

With no protective equipment and full contact, were expected to suck up the pain when you got injured.  All males in Mr. C’s class were expected to play in these tournaments of pain. Failure to do so would lead to Mr. C, seeing that you were ostracized. 

One time while Mr. W was captaining a hockey scrum, the other captain being Mr. C, all of the players on Mr. C’s side were ordered to hit Mr. W hard when he went into the boards for the puck. You see Mr. W didn’t skate very well and he really didn’t know how to play hockey. He kept going into the boards with his head down. When Mr. C’s whole team made the hit on him, he didn’t even see it coming. There was a howl and we all watched in shock as Mr. W folded up and fell to the ground. At first everyone laughed quite pleased with themselves, but when Mr. W failed to get up and the extent of his injuries became increasingly obvious, smirks and grins were replaced with nervous looks and chattering. The next day the school gossip was all about the extent of Mr. W’s injuries, how he got them and when and if he would be returning to school. Mr. W did return to school but never helped or played after school activities again.  Mr. W had two casts one on his arm and one on his ankle.

Phillip, a boy in grade six but older than me decided that we would have to fight after school because he needed to have my spot in the group. I hadn’t fought since my manipulation skills had improved a year earlier, and saw no reason to fight now. I tried to reason with Phillip but he would have none of it, he had promised the kids a show and he was going to deliver. Mr. C,  had noticed us jousting for position in after school activities and for a while had been encouraging us to fight and see who was the better man. The day finally came when I had to fight Phillip or lose face and be branded a coward. I walked right up to him in the schoolyard and poked him in the chest saying, “I understand you want to fight me? ” He answered by pushing me as he said, “it’s about time you got up the nerve chicken shit.” 

Up to this day I don’t really know whether I was scared or not but there was no way out. The lookouts would make sure we didn’t try to sneak out one of the side doors to avoid the fight. After school we were pushed and pulled along to the train tracks where the fight would take place. My supporters and his supporters were each screaming their instructions in our ears. The instructions and rules were told to us by one of the biggest guys in the school and we were ordered to fight.  

There comes a time just before the fist punch is thrown when both combatants look into each others eyes and know that they are fighting for something that has nothing to do with them. Too late to turn back the first feeling out punch was thrown by Philip. I circled him waiting for and opening.  I didn’t care about rules made up by students, I knew the real rules of fighting; there were no rules. Phillip moved in with a classical boxing technique and I countered by kicking him in the chest. The crowd screamed their approval of my footwork and Phillip got up off the ground mad. The fight could have ended right there and then but the crowd was demanding a victor.  Phillip threw a fake punch, I kicked out and he caught my foot in his hand making me fall to the ground.  He kicked at me but I blocked it and rolled out of the way. He jumped on top of me using his greater weight to hold me down. Pinning my hands under his knees he asked me, “do you want to quit?” While he was talking I had managed to get my head turned in such away that I could feel his forearm pressing against my mouth. His answer came quickly. I clamped onto that forearm of his and bit down until I could taste his blood in my mouth and feel it trickling down the side of my face and chin. He was screaming in shock and pain trying now only to free his-self from my grip. One of the referees decided to pull us apart so that the fight could go on.  Phillip and I had both lost our desire to fight by now, but we had gone to far to quit now and our audience was awaiting the final out come. We circled each other one more time and then both of us threw what was to be our last punch of the fight.  Phillip threw an overhand right, which landed in my eye.  Never in my life had I felt such pain. My punch never landed and the fight was beginning to take its toll on me. I was exhausted and tired; I just wanted to go home. The question was put to me, “are you done?” and I answered “for now.”

That was it the fight was over and although no one spoke of it, I had just lost my first fight.  For weeks after there were rumors of a rematch but neither Phillip nor myself wanted to put ourselves through that again if we could possibly avoid it, so we became friends instead. Did I say we became friends? Well that isn’t quite true. We tolerated each other, we even went to each other’s house, but we didn’t trust each other and it showed. We were always one glance away from the rematch. Phillip wanted to be the leader of the pack but he just wasn’t smart enough.  He thought all you had to do was make everyone afraid of you and you became his or her boss. He had no concept of loyalty or its value, so as tough as he was, he stayed on the bottom of the pack. Phillip didn’t just vanish though, he sort of stayed on the outskirts of groups like a stallion in exile.

Beginning To Be Too Smart For My Own Good

Now that you know a little better where my head was at, I think it’s time to get on with the school year and the influence Mr. C had on my life. The first term saw my marks at an all time high and things were good. I was very good in sports and I enjoyed playing rough so I went the first months in this mad mans course without incurring his wrath. This would change however in the second term when I decided to take him up on his mid-term offer that I explained earlier. I stopped doing the homework that I didn’t like and when asked in front of the whole class why I said, “why do I have to do all this work if a sixty percent mark is good enough to pass?” He took this response as a direct challenge to his authority.  He nodded his understanding and smiled. I knew right then and there our relationship had changed and I had just become public enemy number one.

My challenge however innocent had been made in public and would be put down quickly and in the same public manner it had been issued. I was too stubborn to give in to him. He in turn unleashed a campaign of tactics designed to humiliate and break me. He was as determined in his resolve as I was in mine. When the tactics he was using failed (don’t forget that the master, my mother, trained me in the art of manipulation.) he decided that in order to bring this problem under control corporal punishment might be in order. I was given fair warning and for a while I allowed him to think he had actually won.

One day he decided to check our desks to see if they were being kept neat. I must admit that mine was a mess, but this had never seemed to bother him before our falling out. Anyway when he looked inside of mine he asked me to stand up and move away from my desk.  What happened next made me so angry inside that he almost won. In front of the whole class he tipped my desk over and called me a pig and said that I probably was doing my homework but just couldn’t find it in the pigsty I called my desk. At the last-minute just before I blew up I realized that he was trying to goad me into saying something bad enough to be given the strap for. (The strap being the approved method of corporal punishment for our school) I simply asked him if he was done and if so, could I please pick up my desk and put my things away? Oh, I’m finished he said with a sharp edge to his voice! Then he made this statement in front of the class, “ If, or should I say when Milton does one more thing out of line, let it be known by all that he will be given ten lashes on each hand with the strap. No questions will be asked because, no explanation will be excepted.”

Not long after I was asked to bring my homework up to his desk. I had done it but for the life of me I couldn’t find it. He smiled and said I really shouldn’t do this but I’ll give you until lunch to find it. I was looking for it in my desk with no luck.  I knew it was in there, but now my nervousness was blinding me.  By chance I looked up and saw him looking at me with a smile on his face, like he was enjoying my stress and fear. I decided at this point to stop looking for the homework and accept my fate with some dignity and like a man. I walked up to his desk, looked him in the eye and told him, “ Do what ever you want. I know I did my homework but I can’t find it. You can give me the strap if you want to, but I won’t let you sit here and laugh at me while I look for it.” Smiling he said he understood and if I was sure that was how I felt the punishment would be meted out just before I went to lunch.

At lunch I was asked to remain behind and we all knew why. Determined not to cry, I stuck my hands out when I was told to. He raised that strap way up in the air and delivered the first blow with such force that the noise  of the leather hitting the palm of my hand sent me into shock. It took my mind a few seconds to realize that I was in pain, but before I could react to the first blow the strap was being delivered in the same fashion to the other palm. I don’t know when I started to cry but tears were running down the side of my face and I was looking in his face feeling violated and helpless. It was at this point his eyes softened and he put down the strap.

He told me to go to lunch and hoped that our relationship could go back to the way it used to be before. I nodded yes and left the class. He had hurt me and made me cry. Things could never be the same between us now and I would hate him until the day I died. After lunch I looked again for my homework and found it.  It had been there all the time.  I was just too nervous to find it.  I made a mental note to never let anything, or anyone make me that nervous again. I would continue my war, only this time he wouldn’t know until it was too late to do anything about it. I did all my assignments and I even handed them in on time. I was polite in class and even cleaned up the inside of my desk and manage to keep it that way, but there were to be no more inspections. I gave that sadistic bastard no further reason to think of me as a problem and in time I think he forgot I was even in his class.

April was drawing closer and it would be time to see what our marks were. When it was my turn to go up to his desk and find out my marks, I was thrilled to find out that I had gotten a seventy-five percent average and would be attending the High School Of Montreal in the fall, no matter how my provincial exams turned out. Armed with that information I smiled and decided to put my plan to get him back into operation. I would simply write the exams I was good at or liked and just sign my name to the ones I didn’t leaving the rest blank. Back then I couldn’t see that the only person I was hurting was myself, whether or not Mr. C set me up would prove to be irrelevant as my life began to take shape. All the rest of my education was affected by that one stupid decision to beat him at all costs. I had only won the battle and if what I suspected about him was true, he had just won the war.

Our school held graduation ceremonies, which included a dance on the last day of the school year.  All of the families of the graduating class were allowed to attend.  My Mother came and my sister who was in grade six was there as well. There was a dance contest and for couples to be judged by the claps of other students.  I danced with my sister because my Mother ordered me to and Jiutane was the best dancer in the school and everybody knew it.  If allowed to I would have probably chosen somebody else because she was also one of the most feared as well as hated girls in the school. We danced and came in second but in my heart I knew we had won.  Mr. C pulled me to the side after the vote and said these words to me; “In some things it is not only being the best at something that counts. Sometimes your personality and whether or not people like you will count for more. In the future pick your partner or partners more carefully.  I thought you and your sister won the contest.”  I wasn’t to talk to Mr. C again until the following year when I would visit my old school as a high school kid, no longer under his control or influence.

Just A Thought

 What Is It In Man

What is it in man?

That begs forgiveness, but forgives not.

That begs to be heard, but hears not.

That begs to be loved, but loves not.

What is it in man?

What is it in man?

That wants to be praised, but praises not.

That wants to be touched, but touches not.

That wants to be cherished, but cherishes not.

What is it in man?

What is it in man?

That wants to be trusted, but is incapable of trusting.

That wants to be respected, but is incapable of respecting.

That wants to live in peace, but is incapable of peaceful living.

What is it in man?

What is it in man?

Man is inhumane; he will draw strength, even success off another mans pain.

Man is greedy; he will make his gains from the needy.

Man respects nothing, not the birds or the bees; he will cut down the trees, pollute the sky and the seas.

Man will hunt the wild creatures to the point of extinction; to the earth that he needs he will make little if any distinction.

This is man and if he persists; man will simply cease to exist.

It is the same for love, respect and trust; in a relationship they are a must.

No matter the reason; you may be right, or you may be wrong.

Without these key elements; it will not last too long.

The moral of the story is: It does not matter who started the pollution, if you go a long with it, profit from it, or contribute to it; you are just as responsible as the person who started it and will suffer as much as they. No one is exempt of responsibility for their life and the lives of others a round them, or the air and land they use.    Milton

Grade 6, Mr. L / Vance and Myself

Until just before I wrote this post I was still thinking that this was a pretty much uneventful year, but in writing the story I now know that it was probably the year of the greatest changes in my life. Two important things were happening in me. 

After the horrible school year with Mr. W  I had went into an emotional shell. At 1st I did not show the hurt that comes from falling from grace.  I pretended not to hear the criticism of my low marks, or the references to how I was going to be nothing.  I pretended not to see when my siblings grinned and smirked and gloated every time I was admonished.  On the outside to the rest of the world I was calm and taking my medicine like I had been taught, but on the inside I hurt deep. Unable to cry or let it out the the anger and fury building up from the rejection and humiliation the pressure inside of me just kept on building.  I boiled on the inside to explosion level and soon the rage came spewing out of me like a boiling kettle; a little at 1st then in a steady stream.  It was during this time that the 2nd thing happened. 

The school year happened and brought Mr. L into my life.  His influence was so subtle that at the time I really did not think he was influencing me at all. Thanks to Mr. L and his shit load of homework  I was kept busy enough not to act out to often.   Having a lot of home work to do kept Vance and I apart for the most of the year and as you will see because of my anger that was a good thing. 

 It is said that all things have a counter balance and Mr. L was mine.  Mr.L showed us guys that emotions were okay to show and that real men did have a heart and feelings and it was okay use them. Here is how the story of  Mr. L and grade 6 and how that year played out as written in my book.

Grade Six Mr. L / Vance and Myself

 

Nothing of great importance happened in my life in grade six. Our schedules remained basically the same and my life took on a much-needed calm. Mr. L had a head full of prematurely gray hair and a full beard of the same color.  He smoked a pipe and wore the same tweed jacket every day. He said he acquired his coloring during the bombing of England by the Germans. The dropping bombs had frightened him so much that his hair began turning gray. Mr. L was from Ireland and was one of the most passionate men I have ever met. He wasn’t afraid to show his feelings and could often be seen wiping tears from his eyes when a passage he was reading to us started to get to him. He was so cool.  Not once did he offer any stupid excuses. He would simply close the book, let out a sigh and say “ that will be enough of that for the moment.” If there was a downside to his class it was that everything was turned into a two hundred written word project.  Or that every book he had you read of which there were many was turned into a hundred and fifty page book report.  This all translated into lots of homework, something no child likes. I worked hard for Mr. L.  Not that he asked for it, but it just seemed that you owed it to him to do so. My marks reflected my hard work and I was happy.

Remember Thomas Daley? Well we are in the same class for the first time since grade one.  He was my best friend.  Eating, Eatmore Chocolate Bars, and playing in the snow were two of our favorite past times.  We walked to school and back together and shared our feelings about what was going on in our lives.  Although we were beginning to grow closer we had one major stumbling block.  I loved sports and riding my bike. Thomas on the other hand didn’t seem to have any interest in sports or anything else that might get him dirty.  Not that I thought any less of him for it, but it left very little time for us to spend together outside of school.

 I was not as nice on the inside as I appeared to be on the outside.  I was developing quite the mean streak. It seemed to appear whenever I was playing alone with Vance and when he annoyed me, or he did something that I didn’t like.  I don’t remember exactly what caused the argument but I do remember how I ended it. There was some pushing and shoving happening between Vance and myself.  He was bigger and stronger than I was, and he made the mistake of hurting me enough to make me cry. I remember him laughing at me and calling me a crybaby.  I looked him straight in the eye and told “If I were you I wouldn’t go to sleep any time soon.” He laughed in my face and asked “What you going to do kill me in my sleep.”

No more was said and we both went our separate ways. In my head I had already decided to teach him a lesson that he wouldn’t soon forget. Nothing as dramatic as killing him but something that would make him wish he were dead. A plan began to formulate in my mind. We slept in four-posted cast iron beds. Are you beginning to see where this is headed? No, then let me clear it up for you. When I walked into our bedroom, I found Vance fast asleep. His leg was hanging over the side of the bed. It became clear to me what needed to be done and so I did it. Gently I eased his leg more off the bed, until the back of his knee was directly in front of the cast-iron post. Slowly I pulled his leg away from the post. When I dared pull it any further, I pulled his leg as hard and as fast as I could towards the post.  What happened next surprised, frightened and amused me all at the same time. The force of my action had catapulted him out of his bed, throwing him to the ground with such force that the thud was heard all through the house. 

It took a few minutes before his mind unclouded and he realized that the pain he was feeling was no dream. He looked up at me frightened and with tears in his eyes, but he didn’t ask why, because he already knew the answer. A few minutes later he was screaming in agony and I was getting my ass whipped. Lucky for Vance nothing stopped him from flying off the bed or the force would have broken his kneecap. He escaped with a badly bruised and sprained knee and me as his unwilling slave until he was able to fend for himself. Nobody but me could see how he was milking his injuries, so I remained his slave for two weeks after I thought it was necessary to do so.

I don’t think he slept well for a long time after that little incident. During my slavery we had a chance to talk and to think about what had happened and ended up apologizing and promising never to hurt each other the way we did again. On another occasion Vance and myself decided to make spears using our darts to make the spears more real. We decided to see who could get the closest to the other without actually stabbing the other person. I stood on my bed and he stood on his, which was directly across from mine and we took aim and let go.  No one moved and no one got hurt with the first throw.

Looking across the bed at him I could see him smiling like he knew that I would move if he got a little closer. He was right, he came closer, but not enough to hit me and I moved. His smug attitude pissed me off and before he could react I fired my spear. It stuck in his chest just below his heart for a few seconds before falling to the ground. He didn’t bleed much but my intent had been clear. He started to yell at me telling me that I was a crazy person and should be locked up in a nut house. Hearing the noise my Mother soon arrived on the scene. She made me apologize to my brother, gave me a smack and broke the spears in two. We were forbidden to play what she called dangerous war games ever again. After all she said, “If you little assholes hurt yourselves whom do you think is going to have to pay for the doctor?” She answered herself as usual saying, “Me that’s who and the Lord knows I ain’t got no money.”  We were then ordered to get our little asses outside and play properly before she put her foot in our asses.

We ran outside laughing; all was forgiven and we were brothers again if not friends. Our relationship remained strained and it seemed as though we were acquaintances now instead of brothers. One day as I was going to the center for lunch I came upon two boys fighting. I stood there and watched. It was a good clean fight. In the end there was a definite winner his name was Michael .  The loser’s name was Vance .  Without so much as a backward glance I continued on to the center and lunch. I don’t know if he seen me just standing there or when I walked away, but it was never spoken about.

Jiutane became the glue that held us in a vague semblance of family. To touch her was to die. She liked the attention and made sure we were each given plenty of opportunities to defend her honor.  Finally the school year was over. With the ending of the school came the promise of much-needed space for Vance and me.

Summer was spent in the same manner as usual. The annual picnics, and riding Prince.  Just like a horse that breaks his leg Prince should have been put down for mercy’s sake. Even if it heals, the chance of the break recurring is almost a certainty. Well that’s what was happening to Prince. Auntie Winnie tried to patch him up, but there came a time when no more could be done for him. He was too good a friend to just simply throw in the garbage. He was put in his stall where he remained for most of the summer, only coming out occasionally for short rides or emergencies.

Grade 5, Mr. W, My 1st Male Teacher

I guess it is true that at times we are our own worst enemy.  Grade 5 is the 1st time that I can say that I didn’t like someone on sight and they did not like me either. 

Thinking back at this teacher who looked  like he stepped out of the story, The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow, I can honestly say that he may have been a good teacher if I had given him half a chance.  He just had too much going against him right away.  This teacher didn’t look, smell,  or talk like any other teacher I knew up to this point. 

Grade 5 was about geography and maps and I had already developed a mental block where most geography was concerned.  That I couldn’t draw did not help. 

I guess the truth really was that for the 1st time in my life being a cute little boy was not going to get me anything.  In fact it was going to get in the way and almost cause me to fail at school for the 1st time in my life.  

  There would be no gentle touch or approach from him.   He seemed to sense that I didn’t care for him and chose to make an example of me from the start. 

If it is true that we have a year where everything is decided and our lives take a turn down a certain path that will determine how we handle things in the future ,this was that year for me.  

This year of my life was such a stressful year for me that it almost broke my spirit. 

It was the 1st year that I let my stubborn nature get in the way of being the best.

It was the 1st year that I felt like I could do nothing right in school or out of school. 

It was the 1st year that I felt different, like I did not belong.  

It was the 1st year I quit at school.

It was the 1st year I did not want to be in school, or anywhere else for that matter. 

It was the 1st year I felt all alone.

Here is the story of that year as written in my book.

Grade Five and Mr. W

 Now I knew that Mr. W and I would not be getting along the minute I laid eyes on him. He was a tall lanky, pimply faced man who turned my stomach the moment I spotted him. I decided right there that he wasn’t going to teach me anything and that I would make his life as difficult as possible. Geography wasn’t my best subject, but it seemed to be all Mr. Weeks was interested in teaching or so it seemed to me. The beating, the teacher, the geography, the whole world as I knew it was conspiring against me.

For my birthday that year I had received an acoustic guitar, and just guess who was offering free lessons after school.  That’s right Mr. Dripping underarm himself  W. The price was right for dear old Mom, so I was ordered to attend. I refused to participate and just spent my time watching the sweat drip from those pits. I remember wondering if the reason that  he chose the acoustic guitar was because he was afraid he might electrocute himself if he tried to play an electric one. Anyway my lessons came to an end one afternoon when I hit another student with my guitar and cracked it.

The student that was hit upside the head was a boy named Lorne. Lorne and I had a crush on the same girl and one day after the guitar lesson he decided to prove to her that he was the better man by pushing me down a flight of stairs. As he pushed I swung and as they say the rest was history. The girl we later found out had a crush on somebody else and thought we were quite foolish to be fighting over her.

Mr. W called my mother to discuss my behavior. After the meeting my Mother exacted a promise to behave from me.  She said she never wanted to have to meet with the disgusting man again.  My mother said he kept staring at her legs, never looking directly in her face when he talked.  Needless to say I was out of guitar.

This was absolutely my worst year in school.  I failed every geography test we had. I guess you could say that I developed what they now call a mental block. Mr. W wanted us to learn to draw maps free hand, but I was horrible when it came to art. The only thing that made geography bearable for me was I did like learning about people from other places and their customs. 

When Mr. W decided to use my inability to grasp his favorite subject against me, I decided to do only what was necessary to pass and stay out of trouble with my Mom. 

I was back riding Prince and the temptation to follow the older boys out of the neighborhood was pulling at me. However the memory of that clothes-line and what it had done to my back, kept me from going astray long after the welts and the pain had gone away.

We were starting to get wild and my Mother was finding us a little hard to handle. I for one was not afraid to get hit anymore.

 My Mother was not one to give up power or control easily and as a result she decided to switch tactics.

Mom used the ultimate weapon, a mixture of guilt, shame and humiliation, brought on by my Mother’s crying and fainting.  These tactics soon gave her more control over us then she ever had before.  Mom wielded her new weapon like a two-edged sword cutting out all of our resistance and leaving us weeping at her feet. This of course couldn’t and didn’t last for too long, or so we thought. 

It wasn’t until years later I understood how great an impact this method of conditioning had on me.

At any rate the seasons changed and when the school year was over we all passed, if not with flying colors. My marks were the lowest I had ever received as well as the lowest in the house.

   If my year wasn’t stressful enough already, this was also the year my Mother decided it would be a good idea to have me circumcised.  Why only me and not my brother too I do not know, but him not having to do it did not make me a happy camper.

If you know anything about this operation you know that it is usually done while males are babies and is not recommended after a certain age cause of the pain. Well I guess Mom thought that I could handle it, because snipped I got. I was never so embarrassed for so long a time in my life. I mean imagine having to go to your aunt twice a day to have her put Vaseline on your penis and change the dressing. It hurt so much that embarrassed or not I showed up faithfully for my daily doses of shame and humiliation.

We went to-day camp, family picnics and played games all summer long. My Mother’s new weapon worked like a charm; we stayed out of trouble for the most part.  By the way, I still walked no where. Prince and I were back on the streets and would take what seemed like long rides at the time round and round the block.  We never seemed to tire of each other’s company.  Things have a funny way of working out. What doesn’t kill you usually makes you stronger.

I was getting tough now, thick-skinned and beatings would never again be enough to keep me in line. I was impressed with fighting and how if you were good enough at it people were impressed with you, or at least left you alone. 

I had learned another lesson too and it was if you can manipulate a situation do so, the results last longer if the person wants to do what you want them to out of love or a sense of loyalty, instead of having to, out of fear.

I now know these lessons work, but are wrong to use as a human being to get your way, but it took a long time to re-learn this ideology and sense of fair play and put it back into use in my every day life.

Grade 4, The Accident, My Recovery

 It is the end of summer. I have just started my 4th year of schooling.  It is a typical week-end and I am riding   Prince (my bike), when a car hits me and takes off.  It is  soon clear that I will be doing the school year from the hospital and home.  This is the story of my 4th school year as it is written in my book.

Grade Four

I was anxious to get to school because I already knew who my teacher was going to be. Miss T was a statuesque blond, with the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen. I had one problem to over come though. My brother the clown had cupped her behind the year before in front of the whole class. The whole class laughed but Miss T found nothing funny about it, neither the Principle, or my Mother found any humor in his actions either. He was given ten lashes with the strap on both hands from the Principle and a beating from my mother when he got home. The next day he was made to apologize in front of the whole class.

Another time while standing in the locker room on punishment he relieved himself in a girl’s shoe. The girl chased him all the way to the Negro Community Center, where we were now going for hot lunch beating him over the head with that very same boot. Vance had succeeded in making Derleen very angry with him. Needless to say the same punishments were meted out again. It was lucky for him that she had no older brothers in her family.

So as you can well imagine it was a huge hurdle for me to overcome to get on Miss T’s good side but it wasn’t insurmountable.  Hard work, politeness, and a willingness to help her with classroom chores (cleaning the black board and such) slowly made her see that I wasn’t going to cause her problems like my brother had. Just as Miss T started to feel comfortable about another Davis being in her class, a car hit me.

I would remain in the hospital for the better part of six months. It was a hit and run. The car almost killed me and the driver never stopped, in fact he backed up and drove over me several times, before he finally got away. When he hit me the front fender penetrated my left calf and I was dragged under the car. Realizing that I was under there, he reversed the car and backed over me again and again, in and effort to dislodge me. This was repeated several times, every time breaking another bone. Before it was over the driver had broken every major bone in my body.  I didn’t pass out, but mercifully my body went into shock and I didn’t feel any pain. Taken to the hospital by ambulance, my Mother crying, my aunt reassuring and the siren blaring, I thought I was dying. The ambulance took me to the Montreal Children’s Hospital.

As we were rushed into the emergency room, I was becoming more aware of what was going on and although I wasn’t in much pain the atmosphere around me was frightening me and I began to cry. I remember my mother telling me in a soft ,but stern voice to stop crying and be a little man. Mom told me I was going to be all right, but I would be staying in the hospital for a little while. I stopped making noise, but the tears still rolled down my face for a little while longer.

 The nurses and other staff cleaned me up and removed my clothing.  Doctors huddled around poking and prodding, issuing orders for tests, medications, and x-rays. Then they would stand just at the end of my bed and whisper. Heads would nod, followed by glances in my direction.  Every so often someone would look at me and try to reassure me with smile that everything was going to be all right. When the medication they gave me took effect I drifted off into a deep sleep.

The next thing I remember, I was in the operating room and someone was waking me up.  It was cold and smelled funny, everyone was wearing masks, and all I could see was their eyes. They were putting a mask over my face now and telling me to count backwards. My mind screamed for them to stop. Where was my Mother? Why was she letting these masked monsters do this to me? My mind screamed Mommy help. Then it screamed no more, I was now in a drug induced sleep.

When I awoke I was in a number of casts, covering the majority of my body. Everything had to be done for me, and I do mean everything. Being kept heavily sedated meant, being woken up several times during the night, so some nurse could jab one or more needles in my butt.  During the day wasn’t so bad because you’re awake anyway.  I began to hate these creatures that came every night to hurt me.  They fed me, washed me, yes even helped me go to the bathroom and wiped my bum, but because of what happened at night, I hated them and vowed to get even.  I made everything they tried to do for me harder than it needed to be.  I complained to my Mother and tried to get both doctors and nurses into trouble. I went on hunger strikes refusing to eat until they threatened to put in an IV drip.

Everyone was bending over backwards for me, but I couldn’t see it.  I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. People would come to visit me and I would refuse to see them. The ones who insisted on coming into my room were ignored.  Soon only the oldest of my family would visit and the days became long and boring.

Every afternoon my Mother would bring my homework up for me to do, so that I would not lose the year of schooling.

I complained so much, that when something other than medical was bothering me, the staff began to ignore me. Like when the boy in the next room realized that I couldn’t get out of bed and was powerless to stop him, would take my juice off my stand and drink it right in front of me. When I complained the staff didn’t believe me. I vowed to myself to get even with him. He would be made to feel sorry.

Days rolled into weeks  and ever so slowly I began to get stronger. One by one the casts were stripped away from my body and I began to plot my revenge on the juice thief in the next room. Realizing that I would need to be mobile to exact my revenge I asked my doctor if I could have a wheelchair. He thought it was a great idea.  It would be great for my morale to be mobile and good exercise for my weak limbs. If he had only known why I needed my mobility back and to what end I intended to use it, he would never have let me out of that bed.

Watching that boy for a week, I began to know his schedule.  Like when he was in his wheelchair, when he took his afternoon nap and most important to me when he was in traction. One day while he was hooked up I entered his room, bent on revenge.  Wheeling myself up close to the head of his bed, I told him what I intended to do and why. He began to cry and holler for the nurse, but it was too late for anybody to help the juice thief. Snap the release of the traction sent him hurtling out of the bed and onto the floor, causing him to break his arm. I made no attempt at escape. I sat quietly in my chair smiling quietly to myself awaiting my fate. I was quickly wheeled into an isolation room reserved for violent patients and my Mother as well as his parents, was called in for a meeting.

When asked why I had done such an awful thing. I told them straight out.  No one steals from me and if someone had stopped him when I complained, this action would not have been necessary. No one agreed with me like usual. It was agreed that I could remain in the hospital but that my wheelchair privileges would be cancelled, until the boy went home. Total punishment consisted of one day in isolation and a week in bed. Punishment did without batting an eye. All was right with the world again.

The rest of my stay was uneventful. The staff didn’t like me and I continued not to like them. In time the only two casts still left on my body were the ones on my left leg and foot and the left arm and hand. A therapy program was initiated designed to help me strengthen my limbs and facilitate my speedy discharge. This was quite all right with me and I worked like a demon. Everyone including me was quite surprised at the progress I was making.  Keep up the good work and we will have you home before the school year is out. Will I be able to return to my class? I asked the doctor. I see no reason you can’t was his reply. Without knowing it he had made me the happiest boy in the hospital.  I was finally going home.

Finally check out day came and we were all happy, them to see me go and me to be going. The fractures in my left leg were not healing as fast or as well as the doctors would have liked, so it was decided that although they were allowing me to go home, I was to stay off of my feet. This meant that I would have to be carried to the bathroom every morning to move my bowels.

The bathroom was on the second floor of our house.  My Uncle Hughie came three times a day, saying that a person needs to go when they need to go and sometimes once just isn’t enough.

One cold day in late January it was decided that I would be allowed to return to school if I followed a couple of rules and was very careful.  

Rules

1. Keep cast dry at all times
2. No rough housing
3. Go to school and straight home
4. Except for school stay off the leg

          I agreed to these rules and was on my way to school the next morning.  It took me longer then usual to get there but it was worth every slippery step I took. The whole day was spent talking about my experience and what it felt like to wear a cast and walk around on crutches. I feasted on the attention, I felt special, and I was content. Did I obey the rules? The answer to that is that I tried.

One day soon after my return to school I saw Curtis chasing my brother. It was after school and my brother didn’t look like he was enjoying himself, so as Curtis ran in front of me I whacked him with my crutch. This stopped the chase but put me in a world of trouble. Mr. Leblanc had witnessed the whole affair and he was absolutely furious that I had used a weapon to strike another student. I was hauled into the Principle’s office. I told the Principle that I was only trying to protect my brother, like my Mother taught me. He told me that he doubted that my Mother meant for me to use weapons, but in any event, the use of weapons to settle problems would not be tolerated in his school. If I did this again, the use of crutches would be denied me on school property.

Winter turned into spring and the stupid cast was still on. Except for a great place to store unwanted vegetables I had no use for it. On one of my many trips to the hospital during a cast check the vegetables were discovered. I thought my Mother was going to kill me right then and there, but she didn’t. The smell was terrible, everybody thought it was amusing except the one that counted, that person being my Mother. All the way home I was told how I couldn’t be trusted, and from then on I would be taking my meals in the kitchen with every one else, no matter how uncomfortable it got for me. You see up to that point I had been allowed to eat in the living room watching television, so that I could stretch out my legs, the most comfortable position for me.

On one trip to the hospital I was fitted for a walking cast, the kind with a heel that looked like you were wearing a white boot. With that on I was able to walk without the crutch, for short distances. It was during this time that I began to inquire about the state of Prince. I was informed that he was still in the machine shop down the street undergoing several operations that would make him well again just like me.  I asked my Mother if I could go visit him like she visited me. She said I could, so off down the street I hopped as fast as I could. When I saw Prince I was pleased to note that he was all in one piece. The man who had volunteered his time to repair Prince, explained to me that just like me, Prince would be none the worse for wear, but he would have a few scars to remember the accident by. Pleased with his overall condition I returned home.  It would prove to be a long time before I would ride my Prince again.

Finally the rains of spring fell and my leg was only sporting what they call a half cast. The rest of my body returned to normal. I was happy with the change in weather because it was easier for me to get around, but I was also saddened, because now more than ever the other children were beginning to ride their bikes, and my Prince was locked up in his stall. I would visit him sometimes twice a day just to be close to him and feel his handles in my hands, even if we couldn’t ride I could dream.

School was over and thanks to my Mother bringing me my homework, I passed with flying colors and except for having to attend the Negro Community Center’s day camp I was free to do pretty much what I wanted, as long as my chores were done.

I’m sorry did I lead you to believe that because I had a cast on that I was free of chores. My Mother figured that if I could go to school and play outside then I could do chores that wouldn’t strain my leg.  After all she explained. When you get older and have an accident the world will still be racing on, and if you don’t want to miss anything, you must learn to rise above your problems and get on with your life. It made sense to me, like everything else she said, so my chores got done with little complaint.

I loved day camp. The walks, the outings, the singing, and the arts and crafts, I loved it all. But what I loved the most was at the end of the day I returned home to my Mother and the rest of my family, and I was safe.

Teaching, Vocation or Profession? (Abuse)

I would like to discuss the abuse children of my generation suffered. It took place in almost every home, in almost every school and in every police station in one form or another.  The abuse was in many forms and from almost every person you were supposed to find shelter in.  There were the beatings, the  incest rapes , the violations of the flesh by teachers, priests, community center workers and coaches and trainers, etc.

What could we the children  do?  How could we defend ourselves?  We could do nothing, except band together for comfort, strength and a sharing of stories.  At least when we shared our stories we were not alone.  We talked of better times ahead.  We talked about succeeding and showing the adults who beat us down that we were not dumb and useless.  We talked about how it would be for our children and how we would never abuse our children, or allow anyone else to abuse them either. A lot of my friends decided right there and then not to have children and didn’t.  Sometimes when one of us got too scared we would all just run away, but there was really no place to run and running usually brought more abuse.(punishment) 

There was the mental cruelty, the being made to feel less than you were.  These often became sores that would not heal and when they did they became rude scars. Quite often the guys who suffered abuse in the home took it out on their girlfriends or wives.  They may have not hit their parents, but they usually got their pound of flesh from their mates and sometimes their children. 

Some kids tried to change the world and make it a better place. 

Some kids grew up to do exactly what was done to them to their children and everyone else they came into contact with as though it was a right of passage. 

Some kids grew up and  cope  by sitting in bars or restaurants sipping drinks and pretending nothing every happened, or that it didn’t matter. 

Some even enjoyed their special attentions as did the adult who gave it to them. 

In this group is found the worst  of the abusers. They did not regret their actions then,or now. When they are finally brought to justice they scream how unfair their punishments are.  They site all their good deeds and say how it really wasn’t that bad  after all both parties were in consent.  They worry more about the damage to their careers and standing in the community than the damage they have done to the children. 

The courts continue to give out sentences like 3 years for 60 children raped during a career. 

 The church transfers priest who abuse to other churches their abuses a secret, where they continue to abuse unsuspecting children.

 Parents tell their children not to talk about the abuse so as not to bring shame on them , the family or the institution in question. 

Until these and other things change the cycle of abuse and violence will continue.

One thing is certain though is  that we who survived it also remember each instance vividly. The pain and humiliation, the shame and a need for closure lingers on in us in way only an abused person knows.  The abused person deals with this hurt and betrayal of faith all his or her life. If you want to know how far back and how vivid  the memories here are a few examples.   

My first principal in elementary school was Mr. Barry and I was five years old.  He gave my brother the strap when he was six years old.

I remember being stripped to the waist at 10 years old, tied by my wrist and ankles to a foot board, my back exposed  and beat with a clothes line for disobeying my mother repeatedly.  The beating was so severe that I broke the ties on both  my wrist and ankles with a strength only possible from an adrenaline rush, brought on by the pain.  I remember thinking to myself , am I in some kind of pirate movie, being tied to the mast for public punishment.  Here is another excerpt from my book.  I have skipped grades 3-4 only so you can see what happens and how vivid the memories and scars of child abuse are , but we will return to grades 3-4, as there is a story to be told there too.

Grade Five

As you have seen in the schedule for the week early in the book,  there was no time set aside for swimming. Well that was because swimming for my age group at the local swimming pool was directly after school. This time just happened to be set aside for homework and nothing came before homework.

Then I met Glen P. His mother let him go swimming after school. One hot summer day I decided that it would be worth the punishment to go swimming with my new friend instead of going home. I mean really, how serious could ‘that’ punishment be? The first time I did it there was a little screaming and a warning. The next time it happened I was talked to by my Uncle Hughie, screamed at by my Mother, and told in terms I understood all too well what would happen if I did it again.

It did happen again, but this time I had made several mistakes in judgment and they are follows:

1.    I had told my brother and sister what I was going to do

1. I had told them who I was going to do it with
2. I had told them that I wasn’t going to get a beating because I wasn’t coming home.
3. I had also told them that I wasn’t afraid of my Uncle or my Mother because they were all talk and no action.

But the biggest mistake I made was in trusting them not to tell my Mother what my intentions were.  Swimming went great. After swimming we went to Glen’s house and had something to eat. Glen asked his mother if I could sleep over, and she said sure, as soon as I called my Mother and got permission. I was trapped and I was in trouble and had no place to stay for the night. We decided to go out and play while deciding what to do about the predicament I found myself in. While playing the solution arrived in the form of my sister and brother.  They told me that my Mother was very sad and worried about me.  They went on to explain that they didn’t think I would get in too much trouble if I just returned home with them that very instant. With no place to stay, I had hoped to get caught anyway. I was kind of happy to be going home.  At this point I was unaware that they had told my Mother everything I had said and that she was not sad, or worried, but very angry. 

Upon entering the house I was ordered to remove all of my clothing except for my underwear and wait. My Mother came in the room with my brother and sister and told me word for word what I had said earlier to them.  The door was closed and I was tied hand and foot to my four-poster bed. Whack was the only sound above my screams of pain that could be heard. Whack at least ten more times and all the while she talked to me. Whack nobody came to help me. Whack I was free and standing in front of my Mother.  I don’t know how, but somehow I had managed to break my bonds. There I stood in front of my Mom with tears streaming down my face; my back on fire and all I wanted her to know was that I would never hurt her like that again. My Mother told me she loved me and hoped I had learned my lesson so this would not have to happen again. I said yes and my aunt was sent in to attend my wounds. 

Just before I fell asleep my brother explained to me that Jiutane had spilled the beans and my Mother had flew into a rage. My Mother had told them to find me and bring me home what ever it took or suffer my fate. He asked my forgiveness and I gave it. In my heart I knew they had no choice but to obey and I was happy to be home in my bed even at that price.  I was safe again, secure and loved.  All was right again with the world. What happened to my friendship with Glen? It ended that night. The price was too high. They said the welts on my back spelt nut and everybody but me found it funny.

I found some  comfort in the fact that I was in no way unique and that a lot of my friends were punished in similar manner.  I was abused by a community center councilor before I was  11 years old, although there was no intercourse I still remember what he did as though it was yesterday.  I was in the church choir, I played sports and  I was not afraid to fight, but drugged I was no match for him and he took advantage of me while I slept.  For years I thought that everyone could tell what he did just by looking at me and I told no one.  Not even the friends that left me there alone with this man and did not return until much later, much too late for me. I guess it could have worked out worse I could have been sodomised or killed. I guess I should stop complaining after all I am alive right? 

I was propositioned by a few family female friends of my mothers when they were drunk,  as well as sober.

I know of at least 3 male children who had affairs with their teachers all before leaving high school. 

 I have seen fathers and mothers chasing their children down the street with all manner of objects. I have seen children beat unconscious by their fathers. 

I have been beaten by police from as early as I can remember.

 I have been told by teachers that I would never amount to anything and that it was a waste of time teaching me anything since elementary school. 

Is it really that hard to fathom that we grew up angry.  There was no one to run to back then.  All this abuse was accepted and what wasn’t was swept under the rug for family pride sake, or the good of the church etc.  Sometimes the abuse never came to the forefront because the child was afraid and did not feel they could count on the authorities to take their side, or that it would not some how be made to be their fault. 

We were the children with no voice and no rights.  Below you will find another excerpt from my book.  

A Note From The Author  

There were no cute phrases to protect children from adults when I was growing up.  We were theirs to do what they chose and discipline how they felt appropriate.  The law encouraged corporal punishment as a way to keep children in check. We were more like chattel or slaves that you read about or heard about, that everyone fought so hard to free. Corporal punishment was used in the public school system as the way of dealing with children who broke the rules or got into mischief. The police when dealing with children used violence and disparaging words in their tactics.  The phrases of my day went as follows; ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ and ‘do as I say not as I do.’  When you went to youth court, parents who did not beat their children for wrongdoing were often admonished by the judge.  This was the way the system was for my mother and this was the system that was used on me and in so doing, taught to me. 

If you throw a little bitterness with life into the mix, you come up with a parent or authority figure who has the power to vent his or her frustrations out on a child, using the publicly and politically correct methods of violence, mental cruelty and spiritual abuse.  Examples of these were; single mothers who felt trapped and betrayed by their children’s fathers, so took their pound of flesh from their children; fathers who drank too much, when angry decided to take out their frustrations on the mothers of their children and almost always on the children themselves; the police or teacher who got posted to the wrong neighborhood or school not of their liking, often decided to make their charges suffer for what they considered an unfavorable career positioning.   We were taught to survive not live.  For most of my life I have been surviving not living, eating but never tasting, what a wasted effort. This was the climate more often than not that children were expected to thrive and grow up in and ultimately become responsible, contributing and law-abiding citizens. 

As we know now, it simply didn’t work.   As a society we are desperately fighting to get back children’s rights, so they can grow up strong in the right way.  Feeling safe and secure when in the care of all authority figures. Slowly children are feeling safe enough to ask questions again and challenge life.  A new age of communication is dawning and children are finally being emancipated and given the right to be who and what they are.  I think this is a good thing. Like all things in life, this way is not perfect either and some even say that now a days children have no respect for anyone.  

I think with time and a lot of hard work that all will work out.  Children have been oppressed for so long that they are now challenging everything, but in time this will change as they too pass into adulthood and are faced with the daunting task of raising and perhaps even educating the next generation of children.  I wish them good luck.

Teaching, Vocation or Profession? (Grades 1-2)

Grade One

Grades one through four were wonderful years at school.  They were full of challenges made easy by teachers who wanted to be there and who had been teaching a long time.  Royal Arthur was their school and I am sure they could have left , but felt a greater need to stay. Some had taught my mother and Aunt Winnie.  These teachers were  no-nonsense teachers, tough, but fair.  What they were not doing was passing time until something better came along. 

In grade one I did not like to read and the teacher picked up on it right away.  This teacher arranged for me to go to the children’s library for a one on one session with the librarian. 

I was shown how to pick a book and made a member of the library. It was here in that little library that the wonders of the world and the magic of reading was delivered into my life.  I first learned to read what interested me ,but once I was hooked I quickly learned to read everything and everything.  I can now read five books at a time and my retention is great.   Below are a few more excerpts from my book.

Armed with all this information I was ready to attend a school more than fifteen blocks away from my house. These areas were made up of catholic kids of Irish and  Italian decent.   The prejudices were handed down from generation to generation on all sides and were well entrenched in me by the time I took my first walk to school.

 At last the big day came.  Dressed in my new suit of clothes, off to school I went hand in hand with Auntie Winnie’s daughter Bunnita, and my big brother.  We were in the schoolyard only a few minutes when a rather tall man began to speak with a loud firm voice. Grade ones over there; two’s over there and so it went until every child stood in a group with two teachers attending. Each group was then split in half lined up according to height and marched off to class with their teacher.

My grade one teacher’s name was Miss A.  Short and round this lady took a no-nonsense approach to teaching. She had been my mother’s teacher in grade one.  Her strict ways were legendary but so was her ability to teach.  Miss A was called respectfully the teacher who got the job done.  Reading and writing, counting and spelling were taught to us in that class and reinforced at home with homework. SomehowI managed to learn all the  things  that  Miss A had worked so hard to teach us.  School wasn’t all work. 

At ten fifteen we were marched outside for recess.  For fifteen minutes we could run around and play and just enjoy a break from the regular school activities. The younger children were discouraged from playing with the senior grades but those of us with older relatives in the school were soon being introduced to everyone.  Lunch hour was a hectic time.  You had to get home eat and return to school on time.  No easy feat when you are making new friends and soaking in the big New World that was opening itself up to you. 

Report card days were the three most important days of the school year.  You were graded on three things; effort in class; behavior in class; and understanding of subjects being taught.  To be graded low in the first two brought on serious punishment.  When a low mark was received in the last category more homework was usually given which seemed like a punishment to us. 

  I would have never honed my reading ability if not for this teacher who cared enough to go out of her way to help this child. 

These ladies i would like to say were the devoted ones.  I feel these ladies felt compelled to teach and found great satisfaction in doing so.  I know they were the last of their kind. After them the job of teaching became a profession.  Climbing up the ladder became the goal for some  teachers: making more money became more important then kids missing exams due to strikes, or in some extreme cases losing their year.  I am not saying that the teachers were not entitled to more money, I am simply saying they allowed it to become their primary priority, no matter the cost to their students and they are still doing so today. 

Grade Two

  My second grade teacher’s name was Miss A. Her heart was as big as her body, all two hundred-pounds of it. She was gentle in her approach to teaching us and her patience at times seemed to have no end. The thing I remember most about this beautiful woman is the melodic tone of her voice as she read stories to us at various times of the day. She would run her fingers though my hair when I did something-extra special and call me her special little boy.  Sometimes this praise was given in front of other teachers and I would fill up with pride. My marks soared and I loved this overweight, beautiful woman.

Teaching, Vocation or Profession? (Day Nursery and Bunga)

I have written a book in which I talked about just about everything that happened in what I called the beginning  years of my life.  Everything in it is true to my memory. 

Taking into account that there are good and bad in all things and with in all things education and educators included I would like to tell of my journey through the educational system and see if we felt the same, or shared any of the same experiences. Like all the posts so far in this series of articles under the banner of title of, “fighting for justice in a system that does not care” I welcome your stories and comments. There are good and bad in all things and both shape who and what we become, but very few have the same impact as does our experience with learning from the teachers that teach us, the school board that makes sure the teachers are qualified to teach and tell the teachers what they can teach and of course the government who make the laws governing our education and supply the monies necessary to fund such education.

I will start my story from the earliest times I can remember through to the end of my formal school education.  I will discuss the way my teachers chose to teach, their methods and attitude.  I will talk about the Principles I had and  how the way they ran their school affected my education.   I will also touch on the school boards role in my education and their bosses the government of Canada,who over saw the whole thing.  All of these people were supposed to care, chose to get involved in this process and should have above all other things wanted to teach us children.  This is an excerpt from my book The Beginning Years

My 1st memory of being in an educational structure was day nursery.  The directness a MS. Bothwell was such a nice lady and my teachers there were also great.  They were responsible for trying to teach us to get along with others through games and play.  They taught us to share with others not in our personal  family. They prepared us to go to elementary school and to take the sting out of leaving the home and have other adults other than your family take charge of you.  These ladies were an important step in establishing the  trust process needed if you were to obey listen and learn to what your future teachers had to say. They were creative innovative and I adored them. I must say that they did their job perfectly. I was never uncomfortable with them and I was eager to go to school when it was time to leave them for good.

Nursery School Through Elementary School

Montreal Day Nursery

Even though my Mom said she had her children walking, talking and toilette trained by the time we were one year old, our formal training actually started in our fourth year.  This was the year we entered the Montreal Day Nursery.  Here I learned how to get along with others that were not in my family circle.  I was also made to obey adults outside of my family circle for the first time; this lesson was not easily learned by me, which left me in trouble with my teachers at the day nursery and my Mother when she came to pick me up. 

It was in this school that I ate my first tomato and promptly threw it up.  In my family children were expected to eat what was put in front of them so my tomato episode did not sit well with my parents.  Before we go any further let me explain that my Auntie Winnie was like a father to the three of us kids with my Mom still being Mom therefore when I say parents it is of them that I speak.  Anyway it seemed to me that every meal for next few months contained tomatoes in one form or another.  Finally after many vomiting sessions the adults came to the conclusion that I had arrived at months earlier; that Mr. Special would never be able to eat a damn tomato.

My teachers’ names were Mrs. Dixon and Mrs. Bothwell these two tough ladies took no guff, if you kicked them then you got kicked back, bite and you were bitten, but when you were good they showered you with praise. I grew to love these two women with all my heart and was truly heart-broken the day I found out that I would be graduating and this meant I would see them no more, because I would be going to a school for big boys. 

John Wayne visited the day nursery one summer day.  We found out he was coming the day before and you could have bet the farm that the next day when I finally got to meet my hero I was ready.  When it came time for us to take a publicity shot with him I walked right up to him dressed in my jeans, cowboy shirt, and holstered gun.  I then took Mr. Wayne’s hat off the little boy’s head that was sitting on his lap placed it on my own head telling the photographers I was ready. The picture still sits on the mantle in my Mother’s living room having taken a copy from the Montreal Gazette.

I taught a few lessons to a few ill-mannered little boys. Every Friday was hamburger night at the nursery.  It made me feel so grown-up to eat them that I could hardly wait until Friday came again.  The only problem was where my seat was situated; it was at the far end of the table.  You see the food, including the ketchup was passed around the table clock-wise, David received every thing just ahead of me even the ketchup.  Now David had a bad habit of licking the top of the bottle before passing it on to me.  Complaining to the teachers got me no where. They suggested that I teach him how to eat properly. The next time he licked the bottle and passed it to me I took the top off my hamburger and shoved the meat in his face saying; just wanted some ketchup. I was put in the corner without my hamburger but I swore I could see the teachers smiling. David did stop licking bottles. 

Preparation to go to the big kid’s school took most of the summer vacation. There were ABC’s to learn our address and phone number to memorize.  Look both ways before you cross the street hold the hand of the person in charge of you. Don’t talk, back respect your elders. If you know what’s good for your behind you’ll soften those eyes when you’re looking at an adult little boy. This was repeated all summer long over and over.

It seemed that every adult in the world was taking a personal interest in my preparation for school. You were expected to acknowledge all the adults in your world promptly and politely. How would I know whom these people were you might wonder? The answer is quite simple acknowledge all of them, because if you missed one this is what would happen. The offended adult demanding satisfaction for the humiliation made a phone call to your house. No matter how innocent the slight you would be dragged in front of the offended party and made to apologize.  Refusal resulted in you being whupped in front of the offended adult.  In a funny kind of way this kept a sense of balance in the community.  Children felt safe because every adult in the neighborhood became their parents and every adult in the community felt secure in their right to protect you, as they seen fit because your parents would back them up.

Everyone was welcome in my house

Up to this point in my life except for nursery school I wasn’t allowed more than three feet away from the front door unless attended by an adult.

 

 My 1st bad memory I had at school was geography up to this point I had never really known prejudice.  I had never been made to feel inferior, or made to feel embarrassed for being born black. 

We covered several countries in this government as well as school board approved geography book.  It had beautiful hand drawn illustrations showing the people of the country and how the lived and a little bit about the history of the people.  It was like being there. Then came the day for learning about Africa and the its people and how they lived.  The people of Africa were depicted as dusty people who lived in the jungle in huts.  They lived  solely by hunting and scavenging.  These facts although not accurate were not what embarrassed me and got the black parents mad enough to have it removed from the curriculum.  It was the story of  how black people got their curly hair.  The name of the little boy in this story is Bunga.  The story goes like this.  One day Bunga is foraging in the jungle and notices the animals running by him in a panic.  Bunga smells the smoke and now knows there is a fire in his jungle.  the animals are running and now so are all the people in the jungle, trying to stay ahead of the fire that is burning everything in its path.  Although quick at first Bunga and his people decide not to run any further, but rather opt to dig holes and let the fire pass over top of them.  Whether the fire is moving to fast and they do not get to dig deep enough, or they are just too lazy and do not dig deep enough, or maybe work too slow and do not get deep enough, I do not remember how it goes, but here is the end result.  They hunch down in their holes this whole black race of people and the fire passes over them and because they are not deep enough , the fire burns and singes their hair.  The ending result of this singeing is the kinky hair that the african descendents have today.  Well guess who all the non black children were looking at now, with those smug little grins? 

It gave us the wrong impression of our ancestors to say the least , but more importantly, it gave the wrong impression to all the other nationalities of kids in the class.  It served to prove what some white and non black  parents already thought and taught their children ie.( That blacks were lazy and not too bright and were some how less in all things than whites were).  We were expected to read this garbage out loud and to write reports and do tests on it as if it were really true.  I thought that we were a rather foolish people to let the fire burn us this way.  I thought if God made everybody else the way they were and they stayed that way no matter what, what was wrong with us?  Were we truly less than human, like my mom said they thought in the United States ? Black mothers and fathers protested and I am not sure if  the powers that be  removed the book right away from the country’s school curriculum , but it was certainly taken out of our schools.

Everybody is Someones Child

I have been many things in my life and not all that made me, or my family proud. I grew up in a time when clubs had live shows, women were not allowed in taverns and men fought with their hands. When I 1st started dating my mother took me aside and said you treat her like a lady.  When I looked puzzled, she said” Treat her how you would have someone treat your sister, or me for that matter me”.  When I still looked puzzled she said,” God willing 1 day you will have children,  maybe a girl, how would you have her treated”?  I opened doors for ladies; I didn’t hit or swear at girls and I never tried to take advantage of them. 

The lesson worked for a couple of years, but like most of our earlier lessons from our parents it did not leave me a lot of room and once out from under my mom’s control the lesson was soon forgotten.   I quit school at an early age and was living on my own by 14.  No schooling = no job; No job = no shelter and no food. Although I was always polite and still opened doors for women etc., I modified the rules so that I could do what was necessary to eat and sleep under a roof.  In short I began to forget that they were someones children.  

When I was blessed with my 1st child I was so deep in the street way of doing things that I gave little consideration if any to how I would feel if someone treated her the way I was now treating women.  I never had to force a woman to do anything, but I never took into consideration their feelings anymore or the feelings of their families. 

Now one day I am living alone and my 13-year-old daughter knocks on my door, almost in tears.  She is telling me about a date she went on to Mcdonalds and how it was supposed to be dutch, but when it came time to pay the boy said he forgot his wallet.  My daughter paid after the young man promised to pay her back.  Since that time he had not returned her money and she wanted me to walk to his house so she could ask him for it again.  All of a sudden what my mother had said so many years ago came rushing back.  

My daughter’s divorce has driven home what my mother had been trying to teach me that day.  I now understand the pain a parent feels as they are forced to stand by helplessly while someone takes advantage of their child.  I now know that it makes no difference to the parent whether the child gave their consent or not.  I now know that this life lesson was supposed to be applied to all people whether you liked them or not.  It was a basic lesson in humanity.  It is true that we are all born into the human race, but more and more our desires to achieve our own personal ambitions deter us from utilising our humanity.

The answer to life’s problems can be  found in your mirror. The answers to life’s problems when standing in a crowd of people can be found directly in front of you, to the left or right of you and directly behind you.  It is ultimately how you treat all of these people above which will determine your success or failure as a human being.