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Southerly: Primary School for Beginners

Posted at 10:18PM on 17 Aug 08. Permalink.

In early summer, just before the cicadas had started singing, our kindergarten teacher formed us into a crocodile, and we marched over the hill to Mount Atkinson Primary School*. I hadn't previously heard of crocodile formation, and I remember being disappointed that it didn't involve actual man-eating reptiles.

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There was no disappointment about the school visit itself. The Primer 1 teacher, Mrs Phelp, was so gentle and friendly that she seemed to project a golden aura of loveliness -- rather like Glinda the Good in the Wizard of Oz. She spent a few moments with each child (I was even allowed to sit on her knee), and then she played us the LP version of The Tale of Peter Rabbit. We crocodiled back to kindergarten while she waved fondly from the classroom door. I didn't want to leave.

I paid another visit to school after Christmas -- this time alone with my father. The headmaster asked if I ever wet my pants. What a disgusting question; didn't he know that I was nearly five years old? I contemplated the beauty of the coming year: the prestige of being a school-goer, the tender affections of Mrs Phelp, and endless sunny mornings of Beatrix Potter stories.

My fifth birthday fell on a Thursday. Heavy rain in the morning didn't dampen my enthusiasm -- although I did experience a twinge of panic when my mother left me in the classroom. Mrs Phelp seemed strangely distant. She led me to a large bucket and handed me a lump of clay. My classmates were busy at work-tables making snakes.

I sat down and fiddled with my clay. At another table, two boys became involved in a scuffle. Mrs Phelp strode forth and dragged them to the front of the schoolroom. I noticed that her face had become flushed and crimson. "This," she announced to the class, "is what happens to children who fight." She grasped the boys firmly by the hair, and cracked their foreheads together. They reeled backwards, wailing and clasping their brows.

It was a horrifying moment. The sound of the boys' heads knocking together was particularly nasty. I'd somehow expected a noise like ripe coconuts -- the sickening wet crunch, and the screams of the punished were infinitely more disturbing.

Mrs Phelp's temper was on a hair-trigger for the rest of the morning. There were no further physical corrections, but several times she shouted and ranted at children (over trivial matters) until they were left sobbing. By lunchtime, her resemblance to Glinda the Good had entirely evaporated. In fact, if Mrs Phelp had flown away on a broom-stick, leaving the words 'Surrender David' as a vapour trail in the sky, I wouldn't have been at all surprised. And I would have surrendered, too.

During lunch break, the six-year-old girl who lived on our street cruelly rejected my overtures of friendship, on the basis that: a) I was only five years old; and b) I was a boy. I was left to wander, spurned and friendless, around the playground. I had never before felt so alone and miserable. An older boy stopped me, and informed me of his intention to report me to the police. I protested my innocence. The boy assured me that I was guilty of "throwing a pie at a policeman" -- and that he'd seen it with his own eyes.

I now realize that this was a feeble joke. At the time, however, I ran terrified to the back of the school where -- I imagined -- the police were less likely to search for me. There was an old air-raid shelter built into the hillside near the school incinerator. The entrance to the shelter had been blocked off, but through the bars I could see a long tunnel snaking underneath Mount Atkinson.

Two older boys were loitering near the shelter. I asked them what it was. One of them replied in a very grown-up manner -- I suppose he was eight or nine years old -- that it was where the headmaster put naughty children for punishment. And by the look of me, he said coolly, I could expect to spend a bit of time there.

It was all too much. I sat on the stairs at the back of the school and began to weep uncontrollably. Eventually my sobs diminished, and my attention was drawn to a trickle of liquid, dribbling down the steps. I wondered if a pipe were leaking in the cloakrooms. Upon further investigation, I discovered -- to my horror -- that the liquid was coming from my trousers. It was the sort of accident that hadn't happened to me in a very long time.

After lunch I sat damply in the schoolroom as the junior mistress took us for a lesson. Mrs Phelp was elsewhere -- perhaps summoning an army of winged monkeys. The class was asked to stand for a game of 'Simon says'. One of the new boys in the class, Troy, remained seated. He suffered from cerebral palsy and couldn't walk without crutches.

The junior mistress ordered Troy to stand. He was unable to explain his predicament. Several members of the class tried to give an explanation on Troy's behalf -- but made themselves incoherent by speaking at the same time. Enraged at the apparent act of rebellion, the junior mistress attempted to drag Troy to his feet; and when he collapsed on the floor, she pulled down his pants and belaboured his bare bottom.

Troy was removed from school shortly after this incident, and a year or so later it was rumoured that he had died. I've often wondered whether the rumour was true.

As a new entrant, I was allowed to go home at two o'clock. I remember the enormous sense of relief when my mother collected me. And the inconceivable thought that I would have to go back.

In time, however, I adjusted to school. I never liked the place -- but there were some mitigating features. The school grounds were surrounded by native bush. We were strictly forbidden to go beyond the playing fields, but I spent many lunchtimes illicitly climbing trees and exploring a leaf-stained creek. There was a hollow puriri tree where I used to read. Even now, if I were asked to describe a perfect afternoon, I couldn't do better than a book under a puriri tree with speckles of sunlight across the pages.

In Standard 4, presumably due to an administrative error, I was briefly appointed 'bell monitor'. I was a total failure, and once achieved the spectacular feat of keeping the entire school twenty minutes late at lunchtime while I watched an eel in the creek. Strangely, I was never punished for this enormous crime, which makes me wonder if the teachers weren't secretly grateful.

My first day as a school-goer contained all the ingredients that would characterize my subsequent school experiences: fear, bewilderment, violence, and injustice. I didn't know it then, but by Standard 4, the happiest of my school-days were behind me. From this point onward, things would begin to seriously deteriorate.

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Susan Snowdon
Since: Mar 2008
Posts: 53

Posted at 10:18PM on 17 Aug 08. Permalink.

Tell me it's not true.

kowhai montgomery
From: wellington
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 400

Posted at 10:29PM on 17 Aug 08. Permalink.

Tell me it's not true.

So cute.

But that was rather heart wrenching. I still have crystal clear memories of the intensity of my friendship and conversations with a boy called Ezra who moved towns when I was at primary school.

David Haywood
From: Berlin
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 371
Moderator

Posted at 10:33PM on 17 Aug 08. Permalink.

Susan Snowdon wrote:

Tell me it's not true.

I'm afraid it is.

I should mention, however, that this is a severely trimmed version of my original draft (to the tune of about 3,000 words). The longer version mentioned some nice things about the school. I had a very good teacher called Mr McLaren who had us making radio programmes (the only training I've had for that profession), and a deputy-headmaster who was an aspiring country & western musician. He led us in community singing on Fridays. I used to enjoy the singing (although, admittedly, not the C & W part).

Michael Savidge
From: Somewhere near Wellington
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 186

Posted at 11:43PM on 17 Aug 08. Permalink.

I think I may have been assaulted on my first day at kindy. I vaguely recall a plastic spade and my face.

That was a nice gift David, thanks, and a good reminder that we all have poignant stories that inform our current stories.

Judi Lapsley Miller
From: Wellington
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 41

Posted at 7:12AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

David wrote

I didn't know it then, but by Standard 4, the happiest of my school-days were behind me. From this point onward, things would begin to seriously deteriorate.

And yet you stayed in school all the way - right up to a PhD! If you ever work out why, let me know - the insight may help me save on my therapy bills ;-)

Judi

John Farrell
From: Dunedin
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 139

Posted at 7:53AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

Ah...the good old days.

Paul Campbell
From: Dunedin
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 599

Posted at 7:53AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

I remember my first day at school - I really really really wanted to have lunch at school, Mum wanted me to come home for lunch, she said that if she couldn't provide lunch she'd bring me lunch at school - being completely clueless I sat at the school gate waiting (probably while my mother worried about what had happened to her 5 yr old on his first day walking to/from school)

Some days later I got the strap, no one ever explained why

Danielle
From: PAS Women's XV Strategic Headquarters
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 915

Posted at 9:36AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

I am emotionally crushed by this post. Is there some way we could all go back in time and comfort tiny David Haywood on his first day of school? And little Troy, too?

Ianmac
From: Bleneim
Since: Aug 2008
Posts: 1

Posted at 11:09AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

I think that the bulk of kids just go with the flow and accept that the good and the bad stuff is normal. Sadly this often forms otherwise intelligent kids into mediocre performers. The really interesting kids are their own people and either live happily in their own world or rebel against the system. The system often attempts to "reform" these kids instead of celebrating them. Celebrations David!

David Haywood
From: Berlin
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 371
Moderator

Posted at 11:15AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

Judi Lapsley Miller wrote:

And yet you stayed in school all the way - right up to a PhD! If you ever work out why, let me know...

Ha! I left school at sixteen. I would draw a significant distinction between school and university in NZ. I loathed school, but (more-or-less) loved my time at university. Which is why, as you rightly point out, they had such a difficult job getting rid of me.

Danielle wrote:

Is there some way we could all go back in time and comfort tiny David Haywood on his first day of school? And little Troy, too?

Don't worry about me! But certainly spare a thought for Troy. My first draft of this piece had a big ranty section about the injustice of his treatment; I still seethe with rage whenever I think about it. But in the end I decided that the facts spoke for themselves.

As John Farrell noted, such was life in the good old days. I'm always amazed when I hear people declare that the education system went to pot when teachers were no longer allowed to knock kids around (1986, I think, the year after I left school).

Steve Barnes
From: A:\Kland\3Kings\My Office\My Documents\Random.thinx
Since: Dec 2006
Posts: 736

Posted at 11:38AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

Ah, School days, best days of our lives, or so we are told.
A few short recollections.
1. Being beaten up by the school bully, when I was 8, while my form teacher looked on. I found out many years later that he had made a pass at my mother, divorced, and was soundly rejected.
2. An "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" moment at the ripe old age of 10 with Barbara Broadbent at her suggestion. I got a ruler across the back of my legs from the female history teacher, Barbara got sympathy. Equality? Bah!
3. Having my hand slammed in a train door on a school trip by the same teacher that watched me get beaten up. To this day I still remember the smirk on his face.
4. That very teacher confiscated a magnifying glass that I had sitting on my desk, that my Grandfather had given to me when I visited him shortly before he died. At the end of term that bastard teacher took the magnifying glass from his drawer, placed it on his desk, took out a hammer and asked the rest of the class "shall I give this back to Barnes or should I smash it?" Kids being kids you can guess the answer. Later that day, as we were leaving school, I asked my brother if he had any spare friends because I didn't have any.
I am now in tears.
Fuck it.

Dinah Dunavan
From: Dunedin
Since: Jun 2008
Posts: 45

Posted at 11:40AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

My first teacher (in 1970) wasn't called Bundlejoy Cosysweet, but she may as well have been. Sadly I was born in July so I only had her as a teacher for a brief moment. The next year I was taught by Miss Miniskirts-long-legs who stood at the door after bell and whacked each child with a ruler as they came through the door late. I wonder if they taught unrestained violence at T'Coll in those days.

anjum rahman
From: hamilton
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 124

Posted at 11:51AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

steve, that's so sad. i had a terrible teacher at around the same age, though she wasn't quite as deliberately cruel as that. i came across her about 5 years ago. all these years i was thinking that if i ever met her, i'd give her a solid piece of my mind. but when it came to it, i found that it just wasn't worth the trouble. but i hate that she's still at a school in this country, able to ruin the lives of many more children...

Danielle
From: PAS Women's XV Strategic Headquarters
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 915

Posted at 11:55AM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

Steve, that is horrendous.

I once had a teacher privately tell me that even if I didn't do something I had been accused of, he would find 20 people to say I had. The same guy told me that my entire family was going to hell for not believing in God. Oh yes, school was great. Loved it. I skipped seventh form and got the hell out of there.

David Haywood
From: Berlin
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 371
Moderator

Posted at 12:01PM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

In reply to Steve Barnes:

Wow. All I can say is: fucking hell, Steve, what a nightmare. I always think the best thing about school is that fact that it's in the past. No-one will ever send us back, thank God.

Dinah Dunavan wrote:

I wonder if they taught unrestrained violence at T'Coll in those days.

Yes, you've got to wonder where they found those people? Surely, hitting children with rulers or knocking their skulls together was never part of normal teacher training. Never mind smashing up gifts from their grandparents.

RE: School bullies

It's funny what an established role this was (and still is, I expect). It was almost part of the official introductions when starting a new school: "This is Mr Ford, he'll be your maths master. This is Mr Staniland, he'll be taking you for Latin. And this is the school bully -- he'll be beating the shit out of you at the first opportunity."

Our school bully at primary school grew up to be an armed robber, and (as a grown-up) held up an eight-year-old in a dairy at knife-point.

FletcherB
From: Auckland
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 342

Posted at 12:07PM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

My father has assured me, on multiple occasions.... that when he was a lad at primary school (1940s) that every boy was given the strap daily, just in case they had done something wrong!

He also assures me this basically encouraged them to misbehave, as they would still get it even if they were good.

Graeme Edgeler
From: Wellington, New Zealand
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 838

Posted at 12:10PM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

I'm always amazed when I hear people declare that the education system went to pot when teachers were no longer allowed to knock kids around (1986, I think, the year after I left school).

1990.

On other matters, I did know some (not many) idiot teachers, and certainly some I clashed with and/or disliked, but never anyone cruel. Is this a generational thing?

Cecelia
Since: Apr 2008
Posts: 55

Posted at 12:12PM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

I remember horror days too. The 50s! School was a cruel place. Teachers were all powerful and bullying ignored. Corporal punishment was rife although as a girl I was only stung with a ruler on the legs. Barbaric, though.

Relatively recently I was shunned by a local gym owner because he noticed I was a teacher and regaled me with his views about corporal punishment. "Bring back the cane, blah, blah, blah." After I demurred - politely but strongly - he was quite shocked and never talked to me again!

Mind you, as a teacher in a secondary school I've been very irascible at times - they started it! - it's hard to be "firm but pleasant" all the time. I believe that even in primary schools there are some very difficult situations which would try the patience of a saint or as my father would say "make a parson swear".

I can assure you that we are programmed these days to build good relationships with students and usually it works.

Che Tibby
From: the back of an envelope
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 1515

Posted at 12:12PM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

jeeeeeesus.... all i remember of my first day was being dropped off my step-father.

later in the day everyone got to eat fish and chips... FOR LUNCH!

i thought i was in heaven.

the hard-out bullying didn't start till i was about 11 or 12.

and @ steve. i say we find out if the old prick is still teaching. if he is. we form a posse!! victimising an old man is equal in the morality stakes to victimising a child.

Paul Campbell
From: Dunedin
Since: Nov 2006
Posts: 599

Posted at 12:34PM on 18 Aug 08. Permalink.

David said: "I always think the best thing about school is that fact that it's in the past" ....

I used to think that too, I'd put it behind me long in the past ... until recently I was faced with the possibility of my son going to the high school I was mercilessly bullied at in forms 3-5 ... in my own little 30-years on PTSD moment I found myself waking at night, and just shaking at the mere thought of walking into that school .... fortunately we found somewhere better but it dredged up something I thought was long in my past

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