Diary Of A Single Baby Boomer Bitch. 3
Without Prejudice
I went to seventeen different schools, my parents, after their Son, my brother James Stuart ( named for the Tudors not the actor ) died, were always on the move. I know now that is called " running " these days, but for us at the time as kids it was just normal. It played havoc with my inordinate shyness and anxiety, I bit my nails to the quick for years, I had almost an O C D relationship with the outside world.
I cried on the first day at any new school. My older Sister tugging at my unwilling hand and making excuses for my wailing. I could not stand to be late either. I was not a good crier, my eyes would swell, my face go red and blotchy. I have always admired people that can just weep silently. I can't. I go into a heartbroken sobbing mess and I have decided after the last funeral that I am not going to another. They could hire me out as a Professional mourner.
I recall going to one funeral once and breaking down at the entry vestibule and sobbing when given the program.just the photo of an old dear friend and I was awash. People kept giving me nervous glances and I am sure the family wondered who the hell I was, the uncontrollable sobbing stranger to them.
I withdrew to my room after Jamie died and retreated into books. I still do it now when faced with stress, heartbreak, or S.A.D. Which occurs every Winter. I feel like I am back in the womb, a warm bed, an old or new book, a comforting lamp, the yellow light pooled on to me bed, no noise and I am as happy as the proverbial pig in muck.
I lived in another world, a world of imagination. My life consisted of Billy Bunters and Just Williams, ballet shoes, girls who went to boarding schools, poor little matchstick girls, chimney sweeps, animals. I revelled in those worlds and wished they were mine. In my mind I was down the rabbit hole with Alice, rested on river banks with Ratty and Mole, mucked around in boats on the River. I never met a book I didn't like.
The constant reading served me well at school. I only had to close my eyes and I could " see " a written word and spell it. Maths was not as interesting as English but my brain could work out the logic at least. I loved exams, tests, essays. But instead of making me unpopular it made me popular, my brain. I never felt bullied except once by two girls, two nasty little bitches that I met outside of school.
I was forever competitive and instead if taking the long walk to home one day, stayed behind to master The Monkey Bars. I had already the healed blisters that I had pricked with a pin. The bars were high and my hands hurt but I was determined to conquer it. In the end I gave up, the afternoon was closing in. Two girls approached as I picked up my bag and made for home. I was about 7.
They called to me from a distance and I can't say I wasn't delighted. New friends. Exciting for me the endless " new girl " . They progressed towards me at a leisurely pace. I waited. They chatted about the Monkey Bars and one stood behind me. The other cooed towards me to whisper something in my ear. A secret, perhaps ? And she slapped me hard across the face, just once. My face red I refused to cry and they ran off, laughing.
I was stupefied and humiliated and ran all the way home and of course told my parents. They were horrified for me. I tended to never trust strangers after that. Which was probably a good thing. My parents basically told me to suck it up. Life was hard and there was a lesson to be learned. The girls didn't go to my school and my parents said it was more those girls problem. Obviously they had unhappy home lives.
I figured they were from the Catholic Orphanage. Some of the orphans did come to our school and were always covered in " school sores " and had chilblains on their heels. They were separate and apart from the rest of us, strange as they had no parents. Everyone else had a Mother and Father, they stood out like sore thumbs and everyone treated them as if they were contagious.
I went once a week to the Convent across the road from the orphanage for piano lessons. I was sent along with my two shillings to meet up with the Nun who would teach me. The silence was all enveloping, the rooms and hall massive and my school shoes echoed. A Nun would appear gliding along in a habit. And she would set the metronome at a tick, tick, tick and we would begin.
Sometimes I heard the Nuns chanting,
" Hail Mary, full of Grace,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus "
I hated the place and the lessons and begged my parents to stop sending me. I was more interested in the Swimming Pool, anyway, after my older Sister taught me to swim one day, in one lesson. From then on I attended squad every Thursday nights with my brothers and Sister and trained with my siblings every morning. We had our own relay team and were desperate to win. By the time I was eight I was at the State Championships in Sydney. A big honour for my emigrant parents.
For me swimming came easy. I already had a winning sister at swimming and was determined to be just like her. She had a graceful style, while I was a child that just put her head down and swam for her life, never taking a breath. In an Olympic size pool. My teacher laughed at my first race which I won as I belly flopped into the pool, costing me time and swam with out raising my head once.
Then came the " lessons ", kick boards and endless kicking, length after length, then the proper breathing techniques . More kick board work.
I went to seventeen different schools, my parents, after their Son, my brother James Stuart ( named for the Tudors not the actor ) died, were always on the move. I know now that is called " running " these days, but for us at the time as kids it was just normal. It played havoc with my inordinate shyness and anxiety, I bit my nails to the quick for years, I had almost an O C D relationship with the outside world.
I cried on the first day at any new school. My older Sister tugging at my unwilling hand and making excuses for my wailing. I could not stand to be late either. I was not a good crier, my eyes would swell, my face go red and blotchy. I have always admired people that can just weep silently. I can't. I go into a heartbroken sobbing mess and I have decided after the last funeral that I am not going to another. They could hire me out as a Professional mourner.
I recall going to one funeral once and breaking down at the entry vestibule and sobbing when given the program.just the photo of an old dear friend and I was awash. People kept giving me nervous glances and I am sure the family wondered who the hell I was, the uncontrollable sobbing stranger to them.
I withdrew to my room after Jamie died and retreated into books. I still do it now when faced with stress, heartbreak, or S.A.D. Which occurs every Winter. I feel like I am back in the womb, a warm bed, an old or new book, a comforting lamp, the yellow light pooled on to me bed, no noise and I am as happy as the proverbial pig in muck.
I lived in another world, a world of imagination. My life consisted of Billy Bunters and Just Williams, ballet shoes, girls who went to boarding schools, poor little matchstick girls, chimney sweeps, animals. I revelled in those worlds and wished they were mine. In my mind I was down the rabbit hole with Alice, rested on river banks with Ratty and Mole, mucked around in boats on the River. I never met a book I didn't like.
The constant reading served me well at school. I only had to close my eyes and I could " see " a written word and spell it. Maths was not as interesting as English but my brain could work out the logic at least. I loved exams, tests, essays. But instead of making me unpopular it made me popular, my brain. I never felt bullied except once by two girls, two nasty little bitches that I met outside of school.
I was forever competitive and instead if taking the long walk to home one day, stayed behind to master The Monkey Bars. I had already the healed blisters that I had pricked with a pin. The bars were high and my hands hurt but I was determined to conquer it. In the end I gave up, the afternoon was closing in. Two girls approached as I picked up my bag and made for home. I was about 7.
They called to me from a distance and I can't say I wasn't delighted. New friends. Exciting for me the endless " new girl " . They progressed towards me at a leisurely pace. I waited. They chatted about the Monkey Bars and one stood behind me. The other cooed towards me to whisper something in my ear. A secret, perhaps ? And she slapped me hard across the face, just once. My face red I refused to cry and they ran off, laughing.
I was stupefied and humiliated and ran all the way home and of course told my parents. They were horrified for me. I tended to never trust strangers after that. Which was probably a good thing. My parents basically told me to suck it up. Life was hard and there was a lesson to be learned. The girls didn't go to my school and my parents said it was more those girls problem. Obviously they had unhappy home lives.
I figured they were from the Catholic Orphanage. Some of the orphans did come to our school and were always covered in " school sores " and had chilblains on their heels. They were separate and apart from the rest of us, strange as they had no parents. Everyone else had a Mother and Father, they stood out like sore thumbs and everyone treated them as if they were contagious.
I went once a week to the Convent across the road from the orphanage for piano lessons. I was sent along with my two shillings to meet up with the Nun who would teach me. The silence was all enveloping, the rooms and hall massive and my school shoes echoed. A Nun would appear gliding along in a habit. And she would set the metronome at a tick, tick, tick and we would begin.
Sometimes I heard the Nuns chanting,
" Hail Mary, full of Grace,
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus "
I hated the place and the lessons and begged my parents to stop sending me. I was more interested in the Swimming Pool, anyway, after my older Sister taught me to swim one day, in one lesson. From then on I attended squad every Thursday nights with my brothers and Sister and trained with my siblings every morning. We had our own relay team and were desperate to win. By the time I was eight I was at the State Championships in Sydney. A big honour for my emigrant parents.
For me swimming came easy. I already had a winning sister at swimming and was determined to be just like her. She had a graceful style, while I was a child that just put her head down and swam for her life, never taking a breath. In an Olympic size pool. My teacher laughed at my first race which I won as I belly flopped into the pool, costing me time and swam with out raising my head once.
Then came the " lessons ", kick boards and endless kicking, length after length, then the proper breathing techniques . More kick board work.
