School days

School. It was there I learn spatial and abstract concepts. marooned
in space.
The endless empty corridors
hours of waiting for an unknown quantity

It was at school that the child in me became stunted
and the adult in me had to look after her. When I went home from school
I had to protect my parents from the adult in me as their goodness and
naivete made them so vulnerable.

I remember seeing our form teacher lose his dignity
snarling as he caned someone's hand. If the boy was so stupid as the
teacher said, how could he be worth the teacher degrading himself in
this way. Did it mean the teacher loved the boy? Why the look of love
in the teachers eyes after he'd snarled. Was he enjoying the act?

I did not love the boy who got caned. He wet his pants every morning
around 10 oclock. I did not want to be seen to love him. Loving him
would mean I got exposed to more of his smell. They always sat me next
to troubled kids as I was thought to be kind and helpful. If I showed
any sympathy in the playground towards the boy who got caned they would
sit him next to me in class, thinking his reading would slowly improve.
I would be able to hear his mucus being slowly drawn up into his
nostrils, feel the occasional arm movement as he dried off the area
between nose and mouth.These were my reasons for not loving the boy who
I felt sorry for. Because I didn't love him but still felt sorry for
him, I felt guilty as though I had done something wrong. It was not
right for someone to feel the way I did. Because I felt so bad watching
the boy being caned, I knew I could never love the teacher again, or
anyone like him. I stopped trying with my schoolwork and made damned
well sure he wouldn't be able to get the cryptic meaning of my essays
any more.

But I had loved the teacher all year, I was going to miss him. There
was noone else to completely fill the gap he left. I either loved or
hated everyone. There was never in between . The ones who were good to
me I adulated and the ones I was scared of I hated and avoided. This
teacher was often sharp or strict to other children but he had never
been that way with me. He spoke to me as though we had something in
common. In my essay book every story was for his understanding alone.
Until I saw his snarl.

Going home from school that evening, I saw across the road a large dog
running along iwth some purpose in mind. That was all, just a large
dirty beige dog loping along with pointed ears. I don't know why I was
so afraid as it never crossed over to bite me. But after that I felt
apprehensive of empty roads, or panicked if I had to cross a road. I
used to worry when i saw the road coming to an end. What might be there
waiting round the corner?

At home I used to sit in the corner and draw a lot. I was withdrawn
from my family in between meals, and here was a world I could live in
AND control. I added wolves to my repertoire. The princesses were
beautiful and confident, or sort of melancholy and waif-like, but there
were rarely any princes. When I did draw a prince it was hard for me to
get his face right. Princes were always handsome in the stories I
liked, but you never got a real description as to what made them
handsome. I could draw beautiful women because beauty was just a case
of a pure line and an empty expression but it was hard for me to draw a
handsome man who was not also beautiful. I used to think "fuck it" and
make the Prince as beautiful as I liked then rip up the drawing.
Basically he had the face of a princess but wore male attire and had
bigger feet and a more stunted hand movement. My mother sort of forced
me once to draw a prince, she was showing off my drawing skill to her
friend. It was a painful experience. The Prince was what I imagined as
masculine enough to escape other people's disapproval. Too real and
large, almost real enough to swallow me. He looked like a kick in the
face. I made him more mean looking like a wolf for my own comfort ,
that helped a little. I just could never stylise a man. I felt guilty
even though my mother seemed proud. I thought she would probably tell
me off later, though not directly. Or maybe she would just be in a
certain ominous mood and I would know it was about "that" thing.
Nothing ever happened, she never specifically told me off about any of
my drawings, apart from a couple of times when she saw I'd driven my
pencil through the paper in anger.
But when I introduced my parents to my first boyfriend, a lot later, it
felt weird. I felt the same as if I'd drawn a handsome prince. I
thought she would tell me off later in private but it never happened.
She just left me in the air.

So all the time I was at school learning how the eskimos live, how to
do joined up writing, etc etc etc, I was learning social skills. How to
relate to people. How to be patient and invisible. School is good for
that.