Public School - Memories of a School Girl

It was my first year in a public school. I had been homeschooled a couple years before this and had been in a Catholic elementary school before that. A public school meant no mentioning the name of God because all religions have to be welcomed and understood. A public school meant different cultures mixed and playing together without asking questions, although culture was often used as an excuse to get away with or do certain things. Rules were different in the public school, although I was too young to really care about the difference. At that age, I was a “goody-two-shoes” in school anyway; it didn’t matter whether I was in the Catholic system or the public system.  

     

I remember my teacher. He went by Mr. V. So I don’t remember what his name was. He was my favourite because he was tall and gave me piggybacks at recess. He also always had a newspaper in his hand, and would walk around with it rolled up in his hands, as if it were a weapon. But every kid loved him, at least in my grade. He was actually a supply teacher because the real grade 4 teacher was at home with a new baby. I think she finished the year with us, but I don’t remember her. She didn’t make any impression on me. Mr V. did.

            

I loved him. In class, he always talked about important things at the beginning, but by the end of the day we were all playing games in order to learn our multiplication tables or our spelling words. Number and letter games are fun when you are in grade 4. Actually, I loved Mr. V. so much that I worked especially hard at memorizing my multiplication tables, just so I could impress him.

           

In my room at home, there was a section of the carpet that had been torn near the door. Underneath, there was a square tile pattern that I remember well because it helped me memorize those tables. I could step forward one square if I got one right, but I had to step back if I got one wrong. I imagined the squares going all the way down the hallway and up to the far wall in my room. I would start on the squares by my door and move forward or backward accordingly. I rarely went into the hall after the first few tries. Always forward. I was pleased with that, and so was Mr. V.

           

At recess, there was a young boy that I had a lot of fun teasing. His name was Hassan. I don’t know why, but we would tease each other a lot at recess. Then he would chase me around the playground. It happened every recess. We would start teasing each other; he would get mad; and he would chase me around, while I screamed and laughed hysterically. But secretly, I remember being afraid that if he actually caught me he’d beat me up. When he started getting closer, I would run to Mr. V. and hide behind him. Mr. V. would wave his newspaper at Hassan. Then Mr. V. would give me a piggy back. Was I a bully to do this? I know that it wasn’t my intent to bully at the time. It was all in good fun. In class, Hassan and I got along; on the recesses when Mr. V. stayed inside the school, Hassan and I stayed on opposite sides of the playground.

           

I got in trouble once, although I cannot remember what I did. All I remember is the humiliation of standing against the wall and the fear that Mom would worry when I didn’t get home on time. You see, my sister and I would walk home from school together through the subdivisions behind our house and along a slightly isolated path (relatively speaking, compared to the rest of the neighbourhood). It was always a little scary walking to and from school alone. Usually friends walked home with us.

            

But one day, I was in trouble and had to stand with my face to the wall until all the kids had left the playground. Then I could go home. I wasn’t the only one doing this. There were a couple other kids. But I was scared out of my mind. When the lady said I could go, I ran as fast as I could to get home. I ended up getting home at the same time as my sister, who had been walking very slowly with her little backpack hanging low down her back. Mom never knew that I had been in trouble. At least I think that is the case.

            

I had many friends. One girl in particular, who lived just a few houses away from mine, was someone I really admired. She was taller than me and the most popular girl in our grade. She was funny and had lots of friends. She was cool. One day she showed me a ring that one of our friends had given to her. It was really pretty and looked like real diamonds (although I think it was made of plastic). That day at recess, these two girls had a huge fight in the playground and swore they would never speak to each other again. Our friend demanded her ring back.

            

After recess, my popular friend came to me and told me to keep the ring in my bag for awhile. Just after I slipped it in my bag, the owner of that ring came up to us with a teacher behind her, again demanding the ring. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do. I stood quietly behind the two girls, who were loudly fighting again, and listened. When the teacher discovered that both girls were saying they did not have the ring, she turned to me and asked me if I had it. I have never been able to lie, especially when it is obvious I would be in the wrong to do so. I didn’t answer; I just reached into my bag. The teacher took the ring and none of the girls got it. But I suffered from this little honest action. My popular friend gave me a glare I have not forgotten, as it cut me to the quick. She grabbed her bag and coat and left the school. The teacher called after her, but she didn’t turn back once. She left the property and didn’t come back to school for a few days. It was many weeks before she actually started talking to me again. Funny how I remember this!

           

There was a boy in grade 6 who always went to the far end of the soccer field and would sit by himself, holding his head in his hands. I liked to watch him because he was a big kid who was not afraid to be alone. I loved being alone. Also, he was always in my favourite spot: a small copse of trees with a large rock in the middle, next to the fence at the back of the soccer field. My friends and I used to always go there to talk. But near the middle of the year, this boy always took our spot, and I stood at a distance watching him. Wondering what was going on.

           

One day, he stopped coming to school. He was not on the rock at the back of the playground, holding his head in his hands. Inside the school, everything was quiet and sad. There were teachers crying in the hallways. Someone mentioned “funeral,” “peaceful” and “surrounded by his family.” School then went on as usual, with all the kids going back to their lessons or games. But I remember. It was my first brush with death, and that sort of thing is not easily forgotten. At least, not for me!

          

Other memories cry loud and strong in the back of my mind. Memories from that one year in a public school. In my French class, we learned the names of sandwich ingredients. Basically, what could possible go inside of a subway sandwich? Now say it in French. I had the brilliant idea that I would go home and make the tallest sandwich in the world. I would eat the whole thing, and it would be delicious! I told my friend Heather. She was very excited, and decided to go home and do the same thing. That night, Mom said I could make my own snack. Perfect! I opened the fridge, anticipation and excitement at an all-time high. What would I put into my sandwich? The picture of all those deli meats and cheeses and bread slices and sauces was still clear in my mind, making my mouth water.

            

It was a full minute of staring in the fridge before I actually reached for anything. I suddenly had the realization that it would not be as easy as the picture had suggested. There were only two kinds of deli meats in the fridge: chicken and ham. There was only one kind of cheese: cheddar. There were several sauces: ketchup, mustard, relish, salad dressings and vinaigrettes, BBQ sauces, and so on. But I only liked ketchup. There were many vegetables: peppers, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and so on. But those were not appealing either. Besides, they were a little more wilted than the ones in the picture had been.

            

I slowly closed the fridge and assessed what I had. A slightly squished hamburger bun, a bottle of ketchup, two packages of deli meat, and a block of cheddar cheese. Maybe I could add some butter? My mile-high sandwich turned out to be a regular sized lunch. It didn’t taste the way I had imagined it would, either. But it was an experience that got stored away in the files of my memory.

            

There are other memories from that year. I remember secretly listening to the Spice Girls with some friends one late summer night. My parents had forbidden us from doing that. I remember because of the guilt. Interesting! I remember our neighbour’s grand-daughter, who was not old enough to talk a lot, but young enough to still have that sense of wonder in absolutely everything. I used to wonder how her mother could have so much patience! Little Julia only said, “What’s that?” to absolutely everything she passed in her stroller. I remember the little park in the center of the court too. We would run there and play in the sandbox, on the swings, or in the little fort beneath the slide structure. It was a log cabin, and we would gather grass seeds and tall weeds and hang them in the rafters all the time, pretending we lived in the Little House on the Prairies. I also remember bouncing a basketball around and around the block, driving all the neighbours crazy as I talked to myself, making up stories, bouncing the ball to the sound of my voice. They must have thought I was crazy!

I remember that one little apple tree, perfect for climbing, in our block. It was a favourite place for me and my brothers and sisters, as we could climb high and hide among the leaves, pelting crab apples at people walking by, or laughing at the neighbours who could not see us but suspected we were there. Once, a lady came out and screamed at us, ordering us out of the tree and back home. We went because it sounded like she would kill us. Within minutes, our Dad was telling the lady off for being rude and denying children the right to climb the only tree in the neighbourhood. At least by doing that, we were not getting into trouble. Of course, we smiled sweetly at the lady and proceeded to climb back up to our nests.

As you can see, the public school didn’t really change me. I doubt it really made an impact for better or worse. But the memories definitely did! Memories tend to add to the person you were, are, and will become. Memories from the public school filled a file in my brain; a memory file. It’s still there, and (barring Alzheimer's) it always will be.