Passions And Crushes
Without Prejudice
My first crush was on my Home Teacher MR Bruce Jennings at Thornes House Grammar, he was verything I thought a man should be. He was a Rugby Player and wore glasses, so sexy, a powerful huge shouldered body and vunerable with glasses. It made school a treat for me, just looking at him as he paced the stage at the end of the big room, a caged Tiger, and one day Cuckoo, David Cooling, let off a stink bomb of the rotten eggs variety and Mr Jennings called out to me sitting in the back row, holding my nose,
"Bruckshaw, what do you know about this?"
"Me Sir, Nothing Sir"
"Come here now!"
Yes Sir yes sir yes sir, I thought as I scrambled out of the chair, singled out for attention, yes!
(I have this bad nervous habit, when I am nervous I smile, I hate it but it's there none the less) he must have seen me grinning inanely at nothing, lets face it I could only see about fifteen feet in front of me.
"Bruckshaw"
Yes Sir"
You know something about this, don't you and you are to tell me who is responsible!". he was livid and I cringed, I knew who it was but I wasn't about to let him know that.
"I have no idea, Sir!" and I widened my eyes at him and he backed down.
"Out", he said, pointing his finger and I fled as all the others had, retching at the foetid smell.
And ever after that we were best buds him and I, I don't know why. He would call me back after class, marking my latest essay,
"You're a good writer", he said one day,
"You have a talent and could write a book" I just laughed. Write a book that was massive, I just wrote stories about Australia as I was homesick, so homesick and he continued.
"you need to slow down and stop being such a little ratbag to be popular"
I bowed my head and listened,
"be yourself Janette, be yourself"
And I wanted to cry so tender his words, him looking at the 14 year old rebel, who was trying too hard to be popular.
I bit my lip, I wouldn't cry, wouldn't cry.
He lifted up my chin and made me look at him and I was defiant, chin wobbling, betraying me.
"You're a beautiful girl although you don't realise it, with a good brain, and you are hanging with riff raff, that will not matter to you one day"
I couldn't talk, couldn't cry but I looked straight into his eyes, he had taken his glasses off and I saw his Myopia, same as mine. We gazed at each other over eons of time, knowing in that moment, everything about the other. Him the kindly teacher, me the rebel knowledgable Janette and we were fine with it. I knew what he wanted me to do
He wanted me to do better, be better, fly into the world taking no prisoners, be myself, myself. Janette, not Bruckshaw, just Janette. And I took that with me that day, his love for my brain, willing me to be more, do more, demand more and I did.
And I hope I made him proud of me, Thornes HouseGrammar published a little short novel of mine a year later. It was called The Purple Sky, my ode to Australia, sadly missed and of the colour of skies in South Australia and the animals,
galahs and aborigines running off with matresses, we had discarded, and how my Dad bought home a Big Red Kangaroo once, dead, shot by some friends and we screamed when we saw it in the empty bath. Magnificent, stong, proud even in death. And how my mother wanted it out.
I will always remember him, Bruce Jennings, a bench mark in my estimation of men, higher than most. My first Crush
My first crush was on my Home Teacher MR Bruce Jennings at Thornes House Grammar, he was verything I thought a man should be. He was a Rugby Player and wore glasses, so sexy, a powerful huge shouldered body and vunerable with glasses. It made school a treat for me, just looking at him as he paced the stage at the end of the big room, a caged Tiger, and one day Cuckoo, David Cooling, let off a stink bomb of the rotten eggs variety and Mr Jennings called out to me sitting in the back row, holding my nose,
"Bruckshaw, what do you know about this?"
"Me Sir, Nothing Sir"
"Come here now!"
Yes Sir yes sir yes sir, I thought as I scrambled out of the chair, singled out for attention, yes!
(I have this bad nervous habit, when I am nervous I smile, I hate it but it's there none the less) he must have seen me grinning inanely at nothing, lets face it I could only see about fifteen feet in front of me.
"Bruckshaw"
Yes Sir"
You know something about this, don't you and you are to tell me who is responsible!". he was livid and I cringed, I knew who it was but I wasn't about to let him know that.
"I have no idea, Sir!" and I widened my eyes at him and he backed down.
"Out", he said, pointing his finger and I fled as all the others had, retching at the foetid smell.
And ever after that we were best buds him and I, I don't know why. He would call me back after class, marking my latest essay,
"You're a good writer", he said one day,
"You have a talent and could write a book" I just laughed. Write a book that was massive, I just wrote stories about Australia as I was homesick, so homesick and he continued.
"you need to slow down and stop being such a little ratbag to be popular"
I bowed my head and listened,
"be yourself Janette, be yourself"
And I wanted to cry so tender his words, him looking at the 14 year old rebel, who was trying too hard to be popular.
I bit my lip, I wouldn't cry, wouldn't cry.
He lifted up my chin and made me look at him and I was defiant, chin wobbling, betraying me.
"You're a beautiful girl although you don't realise it, with a good brain, and you are hanging with riff raff, that will not matter to you one day"
I couldn't talk, couldn't cry but I looked straight into his eyes, he had taken his glasses off and I saw his Myopia, same as mine. We gazed at each other over eons of time, knowing in that moment, everything about the other. Him the kindly teacher, me the rebel knowledgable Janette and we were fine with it. I knew what he wanted me to do
He wanted me to do better, be better, fly into the world taking no prisoners, be myself, myself. Janette, not Bruckshaw, just Janette. And I took that with me that day, his love for my brain, willing me to be more, do more, demand more and I did.
And I hope I made him proud of me, Thornes HouseGrammar published a little short novel of mine a year later. It was called The Purple Sky, my ode to Australia, sadly missed and of the colour of skies in South Australia and the animals,
galahs and aborigines running off with matresses, we had discarded, and how my Dad bought home a Big Red Kangaroo once, dead, shot by some friends and we screamed when we saw it in the empty bath. Magnificent, stong, proud even in death. And how my mother wanted it out.
I will always remember him, Bruce Jennings, a bench mark in my estimation of men, higher than most. My first Crush
