by Angela Horn

Created on: April 17, 2008

Starting School

From birth to the age of five Mom and I were inseparable. Then the New Year heralding my sixth birthday rolled around, and because it fell in the first half of the year it meant I started school before I turned six. This would have been fine if only someone had explained it to me.

My parents had decided to conduct an experiment (using their two children as human guinea pigs) to test the benefits of early education on the young mind, and so they sent my brother to kindergarten but not me. This meant that starting first grade came as something of a shock to me.

One moment my days were taken up with my doll and puzzles and bus rides into town with Mom, and the next thing I knew I was being unceremoniously fitted for a stiff and scratchy school uniform, with the hugest and possibly the most undignified pair of wax crayon green bloomers I'd ever laid eyes on. So imposing were these undergarments that they came with a stern warning on the label that read: DO NOT CALL THEM PANTIES!

To further wound my already severely bruised ego I was given not one but two hats to wear, a straw one with a green ribbon (to match my bloomers) for summer and a green felt one (again, to match my bloomers) with an ochre ribbon for winter. I drew small comfort from the fact that the fashion police couldn't arrest me as there was a loophole in the system that allowed for the wearing of outsized bloomers only if they matched one's hat.

Just when I thought it couldn't possibly get any worse the final blow was dealt. Item by item I carefully searched through the clothing that had piled up in front of me.

"What about the grey shorts with pockets like Christy's?" I wanted to know anxiously.

"Those are for boys," answered Mom, "girls wear a summer dress or long sleeved shirt and tunic in winter."

I could not believe what I was hearing, "But I don't like wearing dresses Mom" I tried to reason politely.

"You have to wear them to school," answered Mom, and then hastened to add "but in winter you can choose between the tunic and a pair of girl's dark green slacks."

"Do they have pockets?" I asked hopefully.

"No they don't," answered Mom, and then recognising that it would be in her best interests to let me have the bad news all at once, added "and the zip is on the side."

I flung myself to the floor and started yelling loudly, gnashing my teeth, kicking my feet and beating my fists. I didn't hold out much hope of the tantrum bearing fruit but it was a great way of letting off steam. It had been a rather trying day.

The following day I was dropped off at school without explanation. Things went from bad to worse on that first day when break time found me wandering the school corridors howling loudly. So loudly in fact that the principal felt it necessary to come out of his office and find out what the problem was.

"I want my Mommy!" I wailed at the top of my lungs.

He told me to shut it and stop being such a baby. That was 1974 the approach to parenting and education in those days was slightly more colourful. Right then and there I vowed never to cry at school again. I was only five and didn't fully comprehend the implications that such a decision would have on me until I was well into adulthood and spending a fortune on therapy. Evidently it stunted my emotional growth, which in turn resulted in long standing sharing issues.

Later in the year I skinned my knee really badly after taking a tumble in the school quadrangle and had to have anti-septic sprayed on the wound. It burned like a son of a bitch but I just sat there staring straight-faced at the teacher who was simultaneously spraying and reprimanding me with equal fervour. Apparently running in the quad was also against the rules!

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