Try the Feeling

I had returned to class, having completed part B of my plan. Calmly taking my seat and continuing with the lesson we were engaged in. When the lunch break came, as it did, each day (lucky that) part C of the mission was conducted. The class were dismissed by Mr Walsh, when he was ready, and we made our way out to the playground. I quickly located the teacher on duty. Actually I went and stood outside the staff room, pouncing on her as soon as she left to start her duty, over-seeing the children eating lunch. I recall her jumping slightly as she closed the door to the staff room and I leapt to my feet, from the seat outside to office, to ask permission to go to the store. Permission was given. I left the school grounds by the side gate and made my way down the side street to the store.

The acquired money sat in my pocket. My pocket was burning. I know it was my guilty conscience burning. But it was definitely a feeling that my pocket was burning. I had my hand holding it tightly. Do remember that feeling? (Let’s say, when it was ‘your’ money), and you had to walk somewhere to buy something. You became the most paranoid child as you needed to check you still had the money every few steps. Pushing your hand into your pocket to touch the money. Then, pulling your hand out again to walk confidently towards your destination, before realising, that, as you had pulled your hand out, you may have pulled out the money. Then you quickly push your hand back into your pocket to check the money is still there. And this could go on and on for the whole trip, until, walking into where you were to make your purchase, you reached into your pocket and… the money was gone. Or at least you thought it was. What usually occurred was the temperature of money had reached the temperature of your body, so you didn’t feel it. That didn’t stop that momentary panic as you started checking your other pockets and looking around in alarm. Then you found it again.

I however felt the money was burning a hole in my pocket and my conscience. I knew I had stolen the money, but I really wanted to teach the two, ‘E’ & ‘K’ (and their followers) a lesson. I entered the store and there before me was a wonderful array behind the glass cabinet. One half a cooler, holding the cream filled buns, the pastries, the classic vanilla slice (part pastry, part custard with icing on top) and my favourite the matchstick. Two puff pastry rectangles filled with fresh cream and jam. The other display had shelves of sandwiches, plain cakes and some confectionery. On top was a pie warmer. Displaying the range of pies on offer. Mince, beef, potatoe-topped and pea. Then, curry (never quite understood curry pies myself), mushroom, and bacon. And several made up of combinations of any of these as options.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Try Mission Impossible

Back then, we didn’t have locks on the cupboards in which some of our text books and school books were kept. How times change. Now, not only are there locks, but there is some strange belief that, because the contents of a locker is the property of a student, then a school (on whose property that locker is) cannot even look into that child’s locker. The child doesn’t generally hire the locker from the school, they are in nearly every case, lent to the student for their use free of charge, while at the school. For the storing of books etc, so they do not have to carry all of them back and forth from the school each day. But now, it is believed, the students can conceal anything they like in the lockers, from  weapons to drugs and occasionally, lunches. And if a school wants to examine the contents, they are supposed to obtain permission from, A: the student, or the parent of the student. B: A court of law. This is ridiculous. If schools stood up to their rights, then students would know their lockers could be searched at any time, and such things would not be brought to school in the first place. Thereby, avoiding many of the issues some schools currently face. I personally believe it is time to remind the students who is a student, and who is in charge. It was along these lines, that I learnt a valuable lesson for life.

As mentioned yesterday, the rudeness and blatant insults from ‘E’ & ‘K’ (and their followers) had reached a head, a point of crisis. Something needed to be done. So I did it. I saw them arrive the next morning. I saw them put their daily cash into their cubby. I hung up my bag and went into class. Part way into class,  I put part A of my plan into effect. I requested permission from Mr Walsh, to go to the bathroom. (simple) Permission granted. I left the room.

The image of the match lighting the fuse, and theme music, sprang to mind. ‘Your mission Mr Dwyer, should you choose to accept it”, rang in my head. The ‘Mission Impossible’ (Peter Geller’s original series that is) had already been showing in New Zealand (just). I chose to accept. There was of course, no smoking tape machine to give me the instructions, nor was there any agency to “dis-avow all knowledge of your (my) existence should you (I) be caught”. But, I was sure my parents certainly would dis-avow all knowledge of my existence, if they found out.

But as I asked yesterday, what happened to trust? In this instance, Me! Yes, I know I have told you I understood stealing was wrong. Even before the marshmallow fish incident (see blog Tuesday 7^th November 2012). I still believe in that circumstance however, it was fair payment for what I went through. I received the physical, and mental punishment, not to forget the financial (losing the bike penalty) anyway. And, as mentioned, simply got better at hiding what I did. Usually. This time, as I put part B of my plan into action, I overlooked an important basic fact.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try For Fairness

We made a way to the tree in the playground and stood in the shade, due to the extremely hot day, watching (why we put ourselves through it, I don’t know), the group recently returned from the shop. They had gathered together, ‘E’ & ‘K’ and some of their  fawning ‘followers’ (bludgers really, I had never seen them spending their money to get what the twins bought them), sitting with their unnecessary collection of bottles of soft drink and ice-creams. Real ice-creams. Ice-creams from the top line of the advertising sheet above the freezer. And they sat there in the shaded lunch area, eating them, relishing their flavours. The ice-cream melting swiftly in the heat, and they licking it up, watching us, watching them. Rubbing our noses in the fact that we couldn’t afford them. Actually if they had rubbed our noses in the ice-cream it would have been good, we might have tasted some. But no, they sat there eating and then, drinking the excessive number of bottles of soft drink they had purchased.

I stood under the tree with several other children. Angry at the behaviour of these few. They made us feel deprived, yet, I was unable to realise they were actually spoilt. It seemed grossly unfair that four people should have so much, and make such a point of it, to all the rest of the class. And not feel bad about their behaviour. That was my mistake. I got angry, rather than realising I should have let it go. I should have ignored their behaviour. They only got something out of it as we watched them. If we ignored them, they wouldn’t gain any benefit. But, as mentioned we were only nine. As also mentioned, I was even then a keen reader, with many classic tales in my head. Myths, legends and famous characters of those very legends. I basically knew what was right from wrong. Morally right from wrong, not just bad and good. Not just from the various punishments I had received from my father, as you have heard in previous blog entries, but from what I had read. However, I believed what I knew, and so I started to come up with an idea. I also had not thought through my next decision.

‘E’ & ‘K’ seemed to have a large amount of cash every day. Not just a few coins, but dollars. Even though there was just the two of them. Whether they told their parents what they did with the money, or whether the parents never asked, I have no idea. But spend it they did. On themselves and their ‘followers’. They made such a point of getting the most and best for themselves only and ensured they showed us up. It was tragic really. But, it was also an opportunity. It was the following day and I happened to see ‘E’ & ‘K’ arrive at school and make their way to the ‘cubbies’. These are called lockers nowadays, as they probably lock. Back then, they didn’t. What ever happened to trust? Oh yeah, that’s what I about to explain.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Try Dumping

So, once the ‘rich kids’ (and hanger ons) had attended the shop and come back with their special purchases. They then positioned themselves, carefully, to allow us to observe them enviously, as they consumed the excessive upgrades from the tuckshop tucker they had acquired. Then sometimes, to prove how well off they were, they would often only consume a part of what they had purchased. They would sometimes stop eating and then complain of being “too full, to eat any more”. Picking up what was left, (half a pie, cream bun, never the chocolate bars I noticed), ensuring we (the ‘poor children as they had labelled us), were observing, they would cross to a nearby rubbish bin and dramatically drop the ‘left overs’ into the trash. Criminal. Sad, and particularly wasteful. It did nothing to enhance our feelings towards them. I was also, while angry, disappointed that such behaviour was never stopped by the teachers, who also observed the behaviour of these children. Unfortunately, what happened next, started a series of events, with important consequences for myself, my attitude to others, my future behaviour and not just to the relationship to my teacher Mr Walsh.

One particularly hot summer day (hot by local standards anyway, it must have been at least 28 degree’s Celsius), the twins ‘E’ and ‘K’, with a few hanger ons following, obtained permission from the teacher on duty and left the school grounds to the shop. They returned a short time later, laden with buns, and ice-creams. Very expensive, top of the range ice-creams, bags of lollies and bottles of soft drink. Not just one bottle each, but three. In those days a bottle size was around 280mls (compared to 600mls which are today’s soft drink bottle average, what does that tell you about change in attitude over the years?) And they loudly laughed and sat themselves down in the eating area on the bench. Now, the eating area was under a shaded area, but once you had eaten you were expected to leave the area and go out into the playground and ‘play’. So of course while it was a hotter than normal day, were we still expected to leave the shaded area and go out into the playground. Many made a beeline for the tree and it’s shady area.

Actually, there’s another unusual interpretation of a phrase. A ‘Bee line’. It is meant to refer to the shortest most direct route taken by a bee to the hive. Have you ever watched bees? Even when returning to a hive? They seldom fly in a dead straight line to, or especially from the hive. They fly up, circle a bit, orientate and drift a little sideways before getting the course correction (somehow) and then the tend to straighten up the direction of their flight. Not the vertical of course. They go up and down as they fly. So while the direction may be sort of straight, the bee line is like a sine wave of drift and can lengthen the flight by a large amount. But there’s always a back up re: travelling in a straight line, “as the crow flies”.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try to connect (just in time)

Authors Note to readers:

Unfortunately (those of you who follow the international news will be aware) massive flooding has occurred in my state of Queensland, Australia.

While this has also kept me busy due to my occupation, I have ensured I continued writing the blog. But beyond my control, one of the unfortunate side effects, was a complete loss of our telecommunications (Internet and mobile systems). This affected a section of the state of over a thousand kilometres.  Hence I was unable to post my written blogs until systems were back up

But once that permission to use the side gate had been obtained from the teacher on duty, by the student, the store ‘s exotic produce beckoned. The ‘home made’ pies (admittedly, far superior to the tuckshop ones, but then much more expensive as well), the pastries and cakes, (not available in the tuck shop either) and then the ice-creams, ice blocks and chocolate bars (definitely not on the tuckshop menu). But as mentioned, those who had the money, took advantage of the special permission, when it came to buying a lunch other than the tuckshop. Those who could arrived back with a variety of fancy fare, while we sat eating our regular cheese and Vegemite sandwiches and a banana, or most often an apple. They would then find a very prominent bench and spread out their feast. We ‘poor’ (or so they had decided we must be) couldn’t help it. We watched, somewhat enviously.

‘Imagining’ the flavours they sat there relishing. Imagining the mince in the pies was made from the most specially selected meat of carefully tendered cattle. No doubt raised on the dew-kissed grass in the warmest high country. Those cattle, daily brushed and individually washed to ensure the quality of their health. Escorted nightly to specially prepared quarters to slumber in peace (before being terminated to make the mince). And the gravy in those pies, not just a powder and water mix, but made with the succulent juices from the roasted meats, with flour carefully mixed in with a delicate seasoning of the finest herbs, blended to create a thick, delicious flavoured liquid accompaniment to the mince. And that was just how we felt about seeing them with a pie. I can’t go into the level of envy we felt when we observed them drawing out of large white paper bags, the glazed topped, cream filled bun, with a crowning dash of jam. And watching them bite into the softness….. (no I shan’t go into it. The memories are too painful)… well, you get the idea.

There were those who could go and those who couldn’t and, admittedly, some of the hangers on couldn’t have afforded it either if they weren’t under the ‘protection’ of the ‘rich’ (half the reason they were hangers on I suppose). If they bought ice creams, they bought the most expensive kind. If they bought ice creams, they bought real ‘ice creams’, not ‘ice blocks’ as was our usual circumstance when we were asked, “Do you want an ice cream?” We got excited briefly, “Ice creams! Yes please!” As we would stood before the freezers looking at the wonderful selection advertised on the panel, and eyes growing ever larger by the minute, we would instantly be brought back to earth as soon as we indicated anything above the cheapest ice block price. We would still appreciate what we got, even if it was just a simple flavoured ice water on a stick. An Ice cream was a very, very special treat. And we could expect that once in a blue moon.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Getting Permission

Then someone (probably not the P &C) suggested that the side gate could be used by students to access the store. Out the side gate, down the smaller side street and voila! There was the store front. No students having to be endangered by waking along the main road. So that was allowed. But doesn’t that strike you as strange? Their reason for not having us go on the main road (so we were told) was traffic. So what was to stop a vehicle driving down the side street and a child having an accident then? Nothing. I believe more parents would have been more concerned about the children being taken (or maybe that was the idea? They wished somebody would take their children? For a few days at least), or of strangers (even though most offenders are known to their victims). I remember a Roger McGough poem about a child’s first day at school, where he asks the question, ‘

            “and the railings, all around the railings

             are they to keep out wolves and monsters,

            things that carry off, and eat children?

            Things you don’t take sweets from?

            Perhaps they’re to stop us getting out”

Whatever the purpose, the school had boundaries and we were not supposed to leave them, without a good reason. Then suddenly, a store bought lunch became a good reason? A reason the ‘rich kids’ and the ‘hangers on’ could make us feel inferior again. It was a conspiracy I’m sure. Put together by those not prepared to work in the tuckshop, but controlling the committees. It was specific, with just the one advantage for those of us unable to take part. Such a decision as going to the store to buy lunch however, also meant that the teacher on duty in the playground had to be asked. So before they were allowed to use the side gate to go to the shop for lunch they had to find the teacher and get permission. Which meant, in the 40 minutes for lunch, they would have to stand and wait at least five minutes, to get the teachers attention from dealing with all the playground issues. And trust me, a teacher on the lower playground could be dealing with any number of issues during the lunch break. Anything. From breaking up the squabbles of children over the marble competitions (one of the few permitted toys allowed to be brought to school), with all the accompanying serious accusations of ‘cheating’ which could arise in an instant, between two or three competitors in the high tension of a shoot off.  And those marbles were a crucial part of your status. You really had to choose our opponent, but even more so, you had to make sure you played with the right marble, so as not to lose your favourite. Or, the teacher may be dealing with a tear stained cheeked child who had been excluded by other children from a game or such, to dealing with the more serious issues of falls, injuries and potential broken bones (and no, it was not always a Dwyer child who broke a bone).

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Committees

Then things got a little worse for we ‘poor students’. When the lunch rules were changed. They (the school) gave permission for students to be able to buy their lunches from the ‘local store’, or the tuckshop. We, the poor students’ as was pointed out many times, could not afford the local store at the prices it charged for a simple sandwich, and the amazing cakes and sweet treats they offered. We were forced to remain with the ‘budget priced’ tuckshop and its simple fare. Actually, it was probably some decision by that external group known as the P and C. I thought it was a group made up of the parents and teachers, who acted as an advisory committee, but the letters, P and C do not stand for that (at least when I went to school they didn’t). No doubt it was the run off effect of some internal power struggle between those who worked on the tuck shop, and those who didn’t want to.

I say didn’t want to because of the difference between the types. Those, who felt they were too busy with their lives, to be able to volunteer at the tuckshop, for a few hours a week. Have you ever noticed that? The mums who usually work at the tuckshop, ensuring kids are actually getting food and some nutrition, are not the ones in charge of the committees who make the decisions. They are the ‘wonderful women in the tuckshop’ referred to in the committee meeting notes. Not the committee presidents etc. There’s no status in being a ‘tuckshop mum’, compared to being the secretary, president or treasurer of the P&C committee. Once again, being seen to be doing, rather than the doing.

While the local store was on the main street, about 50 metres from the front gate of the school and we were not allowed to generally go along the main street in school hours (in fact in those days, you were not allowed to even leave the school grounds without a parent during school hours, unlike today, where some students are seen wandering the stores in the middle of the day). It was of course realised you could access the store by the side gate from the school, walk down the side road and be at the front, without having to actually walk along the main street. It seems it was the main street that was of concern to the school. Traffic was it seems, the primary concern. Students could (obviously) just walk out into traffic (as they do), even though there was no need to go near the road to reach the store. But someone in charge had considered that was too dangerous. Or perhaps it was the Parents and teachers committee? Knowing how careless children could be. So it was initially argued, that the local store was not allowed to be attended during school time, by one group or another in charge. No one asked us. Then at some stage decisions were made and things changed. Was it due to business complaints from the store? Or was it because their children started attending the school?

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Inferiority

And that was part of the problem. As they constantly made us feel inferior. Often it was not ‘E’ & ‘K’ themselves who directly did the showing off, but those hangers on, obviously empowered by being associated with ‘the rich’. It was a little sad I suppose. It did make us feel pretty bad, and at times, pressured by them. What was the purpose of it? Just to make them feel better than us? Now I know I recently mentioned that was why I had gone to the trouble of learning the poem in one night (see blog January 3^rd 2013), to make me feel I was better than them (my fellow students). And I certainly realised the original reason for that, was wrong. I realised I could actually just enjoy the skill I had displayed. I had also found that it was appreciated and even thought of as a very successful achievement. Mr Walsh had even said he was impressed. That had meant an enormous amount to me. Successfully doing something which, I had achieved through my own efforts. I had felt proud of that simple achievement, so having others tell me, or infer, I was less than them, simply because our parents were not as wealthy as theirs, that had made me feel pretty bad about our circumstances. Even at nine years of age. We could feel the pressure of others. Yet. Feeling bad about what someone else thought, should not have been my problem. That is only something you come to understand when you get older in life.

They can make you think you are inferior. Or they can create an ‘inferiority complex’ (that’s the official term)

Actually have you ever wondered about those terms, complexes? I asked myself once what if you had a complex, about a building complex? Does that make it a complex, complex? Or worse, if your complex, became complicated? Would it be a complex complex? And if it was a complication over the building complex and you developed a complex about it, would it be a complex, complex, complex? Or would it just be a complex?

So, we were being made to feel inferior to the ‘rich kids’, and they ensured our sad feelings were constantly brought to the fore, with regular displays of wealth (apparent wealth, well, apparent use of their parents wealth that is). Apart from having the latest and best of anything (much which was brought to school to show, knowing it would not be handled by the other children, but simply showing it off told the other students they didn’t have it). They made sure, if they had any money, they spent it. And guaranteed to spend it in a way that we (the poor children of the school) would have to witness. Nothing complicated of course. If the tuckshop was selling anything special, they would buy it, usually more than one, since they knew others could not. They would then sit in the most obvious place and eat whatever they had bought. In front of all the students, usually as loudly as possible (if a noise could be made with it, they would).

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Not Having

In fact, today as I write this segment, there is one cyclone in the Gulf (becoming an ex-tropical cyclone) and one on the western side of the country, a massive rain depression on this side of the cape, causing flooding. There are severe bush fires destroying property and land in the south of the country, but, as yet, no earthquakes. Owning property in these situations is stressful. You buy the house, you insure it for it’s value, and what about the mortgage? This is something many found out after the last floods. These are the sort of pressures that create strange responses to prices for homes. In some small centres you can still buy a cheap home, but there are consequences, it can be on flood prone areas, or industrial centres. Then you have all of the issues. Fortunately I am not someone seeking wealth through property. I still tend to place happiness above income (no doubt I will pay the price of that in my later years).

However, this started as a thread about wealth and the hanger-oners (hangers on?) Those who circle the wealthy (or apparent wealthy), like the famous Remora fish who attaches itself to sharks, or swims with them, picking up the fragments dropped in their frenzied feedings. Why I mentioned the hangers on, was from the actions of a few who swung in the orbit of the twins ‘E’&’K’. How they behaved towards others, around the brothers, seeking their approval and using the arrogance of ‘E’ & ‘K’ to promote themselves. It was from such behaviour that I affected my relationship to Mr Walsh. It was a simple matter. And came about through the ‘haves’ and ‘have-nots’scenario. Did you ever read ‘The Sneetches’ by Dr Seuss? The tale of the star bellied Sneetches and the non star bellied Sneetches? How each wanted what the other had, or didn’t have. How one group lauded over the other unnecessarily. Well, such was the behaviour of the brothers, emphasised by the hangers on.

To finally explain. It was standard for us (the Dwyer family) to have our lunches made at home for school. Cheese and Vegemite sandwich the standard. Buying a lunch was a very special treat, sometimes occurring once a fortnight (though rarely), or if major store issues occurred over a weekend, then sometimes on a Monday. There was no guarantee, so, it was not surprising that we did not come to school with amounts of cash for spending. We came to school with our lunches, and even if ordering a ‘shop bought’ one, we were on very limited in budget. We had to have a very clear idea of what a small pie cost, or a snack. And if four, five or later six children were requiring lunches, and asked for money, it was divided, not multiplied. So we were known to be cashless at school. This assisted in making several ‘better off ‘(financially) students, such as ‘E’& ‘K,’ to feel we were beneath them. This also encouraged their hangers-on, to acclaim our ‘poor status and laud it over us.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Un-real Estate

A person may obtain property, in the place they wish, or have a house built with the effort of their work, or worse, ‘find’ their ‘dream home’. I say worse because, that in itself, while supposedly should be a time of great joy, can be a truly terrifying experience. Where, once someone finds that home, which rings true with their desires, and makes inquiries as to purchasing, then it seems, whoever owns the house, suddenly becomes slightly unbalanced. It matters not how ‘normal’ a life they may lead, they suddenly appear to have transformed in a wealth-seeking maniac. They believe they are empowered to seek complete financial lifetime gain, as if the house becomes their complete and only future (apparently). As if their house was the only house left in the world. Regardless of whatever sum they themselves may have paid for the house.

That world I referred to of ‘Unreal Estate’, (see blog Sunday 20^th January 2013) then becomes all too familiar to the people buying. Their world suddenly goes from a normal everyday, saving towards their future or, at least from intense discussions with their bank, concerning borrowing and repayments (or selling off their children, and, today it seems, their children’s children into some shady, interest affected generational loan deal), to some incredibly, extraordinary, unbelievable, scenario where the very concept of power and greed is in force, and usually overwhelming the selling individuals and devastating the buying ones. The value of coin suddenly becomes elastic. The seller over values and over charges for any, and each small detail or alteration ever made to the house. A coat of paint becomes valued one hundred fold and the price of the purchase continues to climb.

This, once the buyers have scrimped and saved for their dream home, or at least, once they have created as much credit as they are able. Then, by agreements and processes, valuers, inspections, legal arguments, government fees, duties and other assessments (each of which demand a fee to one organization, government body, company or another agency), they believe they purchase their dream house. I suppose I cynically add ‘believe’, because they are then confronted with the reality of the actual home they have purchased (and in some cases sold their souls into debt for). Sometimes, it is the obvious faults they discover. The ‘paint overs’ and ‘patch ups’ that reveal themselves, once all the signed deals and cooling off periods have passed. Sometimes it can be the more significant. I have heard horror stories from persons buying a house to have to replace entire drains within a year, repair entire supporting walls or worse (in Australia) destroy termites.

I still shudder at the following thought. when buying a house, you become subject to one of the unfortunate side effects of owning property, nature, or rather, the forces of nature. They can be pretty extreme. In Australia, that can be more of a challenge than elsewhere. Australia is described as a land of contrasts. Which is clearly seen in the forces of nature which sweep across the island continent. Cyclones. Fires. Floods, and even earthquakes. If you’re lucky, not on the same day.

(continued tomorrow)

Try Buying?

Have you seriously looked at ‘Real Estate’? At the concept of the ownership of physical property. Or rather, the trying to secure ownership of property. It’s ridiculous, damaging, and has probably caused more stress, loss of lives, grief, marriage break-ups, racial and spiritual division and anger than any other single enterprise of commercial endeavour. At a professional level, the selling of properties and business’s have resulted in the total devastation of communities, cultural destruction, fear, loathing and hate. You think I’m over exaggerating? Since man, as in mankind (not ‘a man’. Because let’s be honest, a lot of women are definitely responsible for a lot of grief, when ‘real estate’ is mentioned). So, since man first occupied a space, a patch of ground, someone else has valued it (and usually over-valued it). Someone else has then wanted it. Or, if not the land for building in itself, then what was under it, over it or planted in it. As far the development of nations, religions, and empires, land has usually been the basis for such actions carried out, as deemed necessary (by the victors) to acquire it. Genocide, war crimes, the destruction of cities and the massive creation of refugees, on the international level, are just some of the issues arising from the lust for property.

On a more modest level, the ownership of a personal patch of property in Western societies has been pushed into people’s psychs from an early age. The idea that you ‘need’ to own property to succeed (and by that of course they, the rich, mean you have been successful in ‘life’). Yet, despite the continual references in banks, institutions and the world of advertising to which we are constantly visually assaulted, it was something that strangely went against my unusual lifestyle, even as I grew older. Travelling from place to place, never gave me the ‘want’ to live in one place more than another. I have always been at home where ever I am. Of course I recognise, for most, it’s a question of personal security. For security later in life that is. When you can’t do much else, but sit in your house, have the odd trip away, until it is sold, and you have enough money to be put into the nursing home of your choice. Unless, unfortunately, you suffer Alzheimer’s, or some other form of dementia. Then it won’t necessarily be the nursing home of your choice will it?

But, for most, it is the race to obtain ‘a place of their own’. Then, once many have gone through the stress and worry of the banks, mortgages and lawyers, they then decide to do it again to get an ‘investment’ property. That’s where I come in these days. I rent. I’m glad some people want to go through the stress and fear and worry of getting a second property. However, from the moment they start down that track of gaining ‘a place of their own’, they do change. It becomes the ‘driving’ force of their daily, weekly, monthly and yearly consideration. The panic of the fluctuations in markets and the multiple variations of issues affecting their chosen location.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Try Some Wealth

So the ‘Hangers-on’ drift about their chosen host, feeding on their scraps of attention. The host’s tend to revel in the attention, but also recognise the ‘power’ of their position. Such was the case, which drew the path of what was then, my future relationship with Mr Walsh. I have already given clues of the manner of the situation (see blog Wednesday 25^th December), so now I will explain it in a little more detail. The two lads ‘E’ and ‘K’ had the attitude that, since their parents were rich, they were rich (a common mistake made by many children of the ‘well off’) These lads also had the attitude that, if you were well off, you ‘showed it off’ to others. These ‘others’ being those without any wealth, or any disposable wealth. Or parents without any disposable wealth,…. or wealth at all. These ‘rich’ rubbed the others poverty stricken, grubby little noses in the quagmire of the down trodden. Note I said, ‘showed it off’. Not simply, projected an ‘aura’ of wealth. They definitely did not believe it should be shared (oh how socialistic of me). They definitely did not believe it should be put to good philanthropic use (oh how Hindu-istic of me….. yes I know there is philanthropy in nearly every religion, ((apparently)), I just picked one at random). 

They believed they had the money, and you didn’t, therefore (ipso facto) you were poor. You deserved to be looked down upon (not just from their mansions in the hills) You deserved to be looked at with disdain. You became a lesser being, a victim of their greater ‘capacity’ and ‘right’ to exist. Okay, that may be taking it a bit far, but you get the true idea. I doubt that ‘E’ and ‘K’ ever considered the real consideration. Which was, where did their money actually come from? Yes, I know I said their parents, but where did their parents get their wealth? Their wealth may well have come about by abuse of the poor. Perhaps their parents ran ‘sweat shop’ type factories, where they made their wealth? On the suffering of the masses, of a workforce who could not get out of that endless cycle (due to the lowly wages etc), in which they were trapped.

Or was the wealth inherited from previous family members? Then where did they make their money? I have always felt whenever, and where-ever, money is being made in the world (and yes, I do know it needs to be increased to be of benefit), someone is being shrewdly robbed. Robbery is not always a blatant rip off, but often in small subtle ways (and often not) people are definitely being fleeced of their money. I am often amazed when people buy something, use it, then, want to sell it for almost as much as they paid for it. And no, I dare not go into the minefield of people wanting more for something than they paid for it. Real Estate scares me. Really scares me. I personally think it should be called ‘Completely UN-real estate. It has no bearing on reality at all.

 (Continued tomorrow)

Try The Heights

I believed E and K must have been fraternal twins, since the two boys, had the same last name and lived at the same address, both were in the same class yet did not look exactly like the other. But regardless of their physical appearance, it was their behaviour that showed distinct similarities. They came (apparently), from a wealthy background (compared to the rest of us). They came from the ‘Opoho Hills’, The affluent area, or so they constantly inferred. It used to annoy many of us, we poorish plebs, who lived in the ‘Valley’. Down in the deep dark valley. It is funny how in New Zealand and Australia, it is usually on the hills where the affluent choose to live. Building their large extravagant, and lets be honest, largely unnecessary mansions. So, either they overlooked the poor, or at least the lights of the city at night (knowing the poor were down there somewhere), or, they had complete privacy. But as seen in many other countries overseas, the ghetto’s are built up the hills, overlooking the valley where the rich reside. Strange. The rich look out to hills lined with the shacks and buildings of the poor. Perhaps in the smoky haze created by the cooking fires of the poor, the hills become softly shrouded and form a visual, soft focused pattern, which at a distance blends the buildings appearances. Or else, the rich (who are possibly older by the time they acquire their wealth) have poor eyesight and cant see the details of the buildings but just the shapes of the hills?

Whichever it was, the twins claimed they lived in the rich neighbourhood. And only came down to this school until there was an opening at the private school (A year later they would still be saying the same thing. Funny that?) Being rich also had another effect. Rich people attracted a special species to their side. A particular species, a type, of ‘person’, whose own shallow character, definitely has certain ‘parasitic’ qualities in their nature and behaviour. In nature (the real nature of the wild) the relationship is usually between different species (the same as ‘symbiotic’ relationships) But, not in this case. These persons survival depends on the main subject of their interest.  This species can also be found around the most popular sporting people of the school and sometimes the dangerous people (even at primary school they existed. A few even ran a bit of a ‘protection’ racket at one of my earlier schools.). Each sub species in this group behaves and is attracted to that particular host, from whom they receive the most support. Once attached. They seldom fall away. They are the ‘Hangers on’ (popularly named now, ‘The Entourage’) These are those who ‘pander’, ‘fawn’, ‘grovel’ and ‘flatter’ to their host. Feeding on the favourable attention of their selected host. This was, when we were only about nine years of age. So even the ‘hangers on’, were still in the early stages of learning the necessary skills of…hanging on.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try And Not Give Away The Names

We now return to the tale I began (see blog Wednesday 25^th December 2013) which followed the main thread of this blog, punishments and the lessons in life (while still young). And why Mr Walsh, my senior stage primary school teacher, became a significant person in my then, early life. It is about punishment, But it is about the lesson I was taught. First it must be about what occurred. You have followed my experiences through the various episodes, where I didn’t do anything wrong and was punished (the kite story) where I did do something wrong and was punished (The chocolate marshmallow fish story) and it is not a criticism of receiving the punishments, it is about what the punishments taught me. So far, accidents happen, but ultimately you are responsible for your own actions, Stealing is wrong, and if you were not careful, you would get caught, so people learn to cover up the thefts. That is the wrong lesson. The following is about the real lesson I was taught by someone outside of the family.

There were two lads at school, who were both a bit stuck up (in our eyes). Whoops, there I go, speaking as if my views were everyone’s. It is still something I often do. Express a personal view as if all would agree with me. I often find they don’t. I was just recently asked why I think everyone should have to live by my morals. They agreed my morals were good, but why did I always judge what others did by that? I think my morals are good ‘now’, but agree, others feel they are too strict and difficult to uphold. However that aside, back then I was young, still learning my way in the world (still trying to spell morals… just kidding). I felt somewhat, ‘outside’ the usual collection of the friends and playmates of the other children. But also, felt a part of the greater ‘mass’ of general society (for general society, read poor. Not really poor, but just no spare money). So when people displayed their apparent disdain for others, by (even at a young age), flouting their evident wealth (in this case the wealth of their parents, not their own), I felt somewhat aggrieved. For myself as well as the other less fortunate children.

This was the occasional practice of the two aforementioned lads. Yes, I remember their surnames, but I won’t put them in, as that is not a necessary part of this story. I believe they were fraternal twins (Okay, everyone who knew Mr Walsh, will know the school I went to and know who I was speaking of. But since I haven’t identified the school from the many I went to? There can’t be many of you out there who can identify E. & K. Okay, if you didn’t know exactly who I was talking of, then the E and K as the first letters of their names, has probably given it away. If you still don’t know who I am referring to, then we’ll just go on with the story anyway),

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Thinking First

So Stephen was happy. Mr Walsh recognised his trophy (even if it wasn’t what he had claimed it was). He had however generated a lot of interest from several of the like minded rugby crazy children. My Walsh stood up and looking out the window, advised Stephen his father was down at the gate. Stephen picked up the ball and proudly left the room. I still sat at the desk. Mr Walsh watched as Stephen crossed the playground and met his father at the gate, followed by a small group of enthusiasts. His father also pleased that the other students were impressed with the ball. Stephen said something and pointed up to the classroom and looking up, Mr Pritchard (senior), waved. Mr Walsh waved back and took out the apple, examining it. “Now, Gregory” he began turning back to me, but concentrating on the apple. “You have a sharp eye and a quick mind. And sometimes, an even quicker tongue. Which will if unchecked, get you into trouble. But, you will need to do a considerable amount of work to use them all correctly.” He looked at me seriously. “That was not the best time to notice the information on the ball. And to speak out like that. It would have been wiser to simply let Stephen believe whatever it was he believed.”

I looked a little concerned. “But, isn’t that the same as lying, sir?” Mr Walsh shook his head. “The truth is, it was a trophy of the All Blacks. Agreed?” Mr Walsh looked at me. “Yes, Sir.” I replied. Mr Walsh continued, “It was simply that the information that Stephen provided was.... (he paused, then smiled) inaccurate.” He looked down at me and smiled. “Agreed?” I laughed. “Yes, Sir. Agreed”. “Good.” Mr Walsh concluded, “But I shall not be giving him marks off for that? Agreed?” “Yes, Sir” I smiled. Enjoying the understanding. “Now, go out and have a run around. There are only a few minutes left.” I stood up to leave. “And Mr Dwyer.” Mr Walsh said, demanding my attention. “Your presentation (see blog Friday 4th January 2013), was extremely well done. I am much impressed.” If Stephen had swelled with pride before, I positively exploded. Mr Walsh, was much impressed. “I thought a student of your age learning that poem in a week was impressive, but for you to have learnt it in one night, and presented it the way you did...? “ He paused again. “Had you practiced the acting out part?” He asked. I stopped. “No Sir.” I cast my eyes down at the ground, wondering if I should tell him. I decided it would be best. ‘I made it up, Sir. As I told the poem.” Mr Walsh smiled. “I thought so, Mr Dwyer. Very, very well done then.” This was a very special moment. Mr Walsh was impressed with my telling of the poem and I watched him thoughtfully consider what he had seen. I proudly left the room and walked down to the playground. Unaware that, in just a few short days, the relationship between Mr Walsh and myself would be harmed by my actions.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Recognition

“And yes, they won on Saturday, you were correct about that.” Stephen started to look sideways at me with a smile. “But,” Mr Walsh continued “Mr Pritchard, that ball is not from the game on Saturday. Otherwise there were two players, whose names I recognised heading into their late forties, playing for the All Blacks and I don’t believe that is the case.” Stephen looked at Mr Walsh. “But my dad said... “ Mr Walsh simply looked at Stephen. “I am sure your father wanted you to be excited and show a very special memento. But, as Mr Dwyer observed. This ball ‘is’ signed by the team that won at Lancaster Park in 1963. Not 1971.”

Really? I hadn’t realised that. I had only wondered what that meant. I didn’t know where Lancaster Park was. Or did I? Was that why I had asked the question in the first place? A sort of intuitive sense? But for what purpose. Once again was I trying to appear to be more clever than some other children. Why? I had just done a performance of a poem to the class, acted it out, was entertaining and had got a great response (or so most of the class had thought, apart from Stephen here). So why had I unconsciously pursued the error in his presentation? Ego? I don’t know.

Mr Walsh continued. “ But, that does not matter Stephen.” (note the change from getting our attention to speaking to us personally) “What does matter is it is a very special rugby ball signed by an All Black team after they had won against the English in an international competition” Stephen literally ‘swelled’ with pride, that having such a item had been recognised by the teacher. Perhaps that was what each of us were trying to achieve. That special attention of the people we respected. As children, most often it was our teachers, first. In many cases children formed ‘bonds’, or groups, associates, they wanted to impress, so as to have ‘friends’. Having friends. In our society it seems that, is a very ‘valued’ commodity. And while it is not always possible to make friends, it seems people expect you to have them. And to be seen with them. There’s the important part. You have to be ‘seen’ to have friends. Or you can be excluded. This can put amazing pressure on children, and there are consequences for those who appear to fail at this (I know). But that can be how shallow we are as a society. True friendship is far different to what society expects. I often refer to having ‘aquaintances’, people I simply know, through work, daily life. Anyone from the butcher, to the office co-worker. They know little about me, apart from that which I wish to show or share (many probably would agree they know more than they wish too).  Consequently I have few friends. Those I truly value, and whose lives I am truly interested in and wish total happiness for (an even rarer commodity)

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Manners

Even Stephen knew not to cross the line with Mr Walsh. He turned to Mr Walsh. Mr Walsh spoke very clearly. “I will see both of you during the break.” Stephen sat down. I was wondering what I had done? All I had pointed out was that the ball had ‘Lancaster Park 1963’ written on it in the same sort of pen as used on the ball by those signing their names. Signing them, on Saturday, according to Stephen. The actual lesson began somewhat later than had been planned and Mr Walsh attempted to push us through the class. He managed it, as the bell rang. We continued until Mr Walsh said. “Thank You. You may go to break” Then the students opened their desks and put away the books. Yes, we had desks with lids that lifted up. The ones you could open and turn your head to the side to speak to the person next to you, hopefully without the teacher noticing), or as I found on many an occasion, someone could raise it up and blow a spitball at your attentive face (Attentive towards the actual lesson that is, not towards the spitball). The students in Mr Walsh’s class then stood up from their desks. Pushed their chair in ‘straight’ (quietly) and walked out of the room. This is an uncommon sight in many schools today, where as the bell is ringing it’s first clang (or buzzing it’s first buzz), some students are already standing and walking out of the classroom. With teachers having to shout lesson instructions, or homework demands, above the students vocal and noisy departure.

I would call it unruly, ill-disciplined and bad manners. Many say it’s just the way it is. Who let it get that way? Obviously the previous generations.

However, for Stephen and I we knew to remain at our desk until Mr Walsh was ready for us. He casually took out his lunch box and removed an apple. He watched the other students move out down the stairs and onto the playground below. Then he stood up and quietly made his way to the front of our desks. He put the apple in his pocket and sat on the edge of the desk before us. “Mr Dwyer (that meant he wanted my undivided attention). Mr Walsh used last names as an attention getting device (It worked. It would not be that good for you if it didn’t). Mr Walsh had once pointed out, it was the students job to first listen, then ask. “and Mr Pritchard” He began. Stephen sat his large frame up a little straighter as well. We both asked “Sir?” There are two problems here. Mr Pritchard has made a mistake in his excitement. Mr Dwyer has the unfortunate ability to have spotted that mistake, without realising it.” We were both puzzled. I wasn’t sure what the mistake was, that was true, and Stephen had no idea what the mistake was, that was obvious. Mr Walsh continued kindly. “Mr Pritchard, the All Blacks did not play at Carrisbrook on Saturday, they played in Christchurch. There was a moments silence as this filtered through to both of us.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try Just The Facts

Stephen had looked back at Mr Walsh slightly blankly. “The All Blacks” Mr Walsh repeated, “Who were they playing on Saturday?” Mr Walsh asked again. “Oh, The Lions.” Stephen replied enthusiastically. Mr Walsh nodded. “And what country are ‘the Lions’ actually from?” Mr Walsh asked Stephen encouragingly. “Africa?” Stephen answered with a questionable response. I then made the mistake of laughing at Stephen’s response. Even I knew, the ‘Lions’ was the name given to the English rugby team as a historical reference to the figurehead used in heraldry (The lion is a common design in heraldry. It traditionally symbolises bravery, valour, strength, and royalty, since traditionally, it is regarded as the king of beasts). However, laughing at Stephen was not the smartest thing to do, and any good will I had possibly raised in getting Stephen the opportunity to present his football was immediately undone. He glared back in my direction and Mr Walsh looked down the aisle at me and gestured me to be quiet.

“I think Stephen that the Lions are the English rugby team, Yes?” He offered. Stephen nodded in agreement. “Yes, that’s right.” Stephen agreed. “And did you see the game?” Mr Walsh asked. There was a pause. “No.” Stephen answered.

“Dad went to watch it.” Stephen was a little dejected. “But he said I could bring in the ball today to show you.” Mr Walsh nodded. “Well thank you for that. If you want to take your seat, we’ll go on with the lesson.” “Can’t I let everyone see the ball close up?” Stephen asked Mr Walsh. Mr Walsh was starting to feel the lesson would never get done. “Very well, just walk it around the aisles to your seat.” Mr Walsh suggested.  “But you are not to touch it, Stephen added. 

He made his way down the aisles keeping a sharp eye on the excited faces of the other classmates, should any one of them reach forward and try to lay a hand on the iconic leather item. They strained to see the names written on the ball. As he passed down the aisle, his back to me. I looked across at the ball. Not really interested in the item. Then noticed it had Lancaster Park 1963 written on the part of the ball nearest to Stephen. “Why has it got 1963 written on it?” I made the mistake of asking Stephen aloud. “What?” he asked sneeringly (yes, it is possible to speak, sneer and add a question tone to your voice). He looked at the ball where I was looking. He looked at me angrily. “There’” I pointed. “It’s got Lancaster Park 1963 written on it.” ‘I don’t know”, Stephen said. “Maybe that was when it was made” He suggested. “But, that’s handwritten, the same as the signed names...” Mr Walsh spoke quickly “That’s enough. Thank you Stephen. Stephen looked down at me and, as he went to take his seat, he passed me close enough that he could swing his elbow out to collect the side of my head. I reacted vocally. A single word from Mr Walsh. “Stephen!”  Everyone stopped.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try To Elaborate

Stephen, standing before his young classmates, now presenting this signed ball, at the class’s ‘show an tell’, was immediately honoured with the status given to anyone on the periphery of such icons (In this instance the ‘revered’ All Blacks). Simply by having possession of this supposed ‘relic’ of cultural importance. That aura was bestowed assuming special knowledge, and automatically conferred on any associates of the great, regardless of ‘their’ actual contributions (and I doubt Stephen at nine years old was actually contributing to the All Blacks). It was not dissimilar to the massive controls exerted over people all over the world when religious icons are, or were, involved. Incredible power came with the possession of even the smallest relics. A finger of a ‘saint’, the cloth of a ‘prophet’ (let’s not suggest what the cloth may have been for), or even furniture sat on or handled by the figure of religion involved. In fact historically entire buildings and cities have even been constructed due to such possession and protection of the relic and wars fought between competing lords, clergy and countries, simply to possess such items. In some ways, what’s the difference, sports stadium are built, nations are pitted against nations, crowds massing to see such figures. Is there much difference?

This was however, simply a ball, but the reverence it was already being shown, was in some ways frightening. Stephen, obviously had some form of ‘connection’ with either A; the All Blacks (despite his size, it was doubtful he had yet been asked to apply to play with them, but even that was not impossible), B; Carrisbrook ‘The house of Pain” (perhaps he had worked as a ball boy on the day? Yet very doubtful he had been given a signed ball as a souvenir or payment?) or C; had won a raffle/fundraiser, where the ball had been put up as a prize. If Stephen, now standing akimbo at the front of the class, loving the attention he was getting from several of the other rugby loving ‘lads’ was in such a position, why would he only have the ball for a single day as he had indicated?

He had claimed he had to present the ball today before his father collected the ball back, instead of us continuing with Mr Walsh’s lesson, following my well received acting presentation of the poem of ‘The Sad Tale of a Motor Fan by H. A. Field’ . He now offered the ball and said again, “This is the ball used by the All Blacks when they won on Saturday at Carrisbrook” He looked around proudly, as if we would all know about Carrisbrook and the game on Saturday. “They signed it!” We looked. He looked. Mr Walsh looked… and waited for some further explanation. There was nothing forth coming from Stephen. Mr Walsh tried to encourage Stephen to elaborate. “Who were they playing?’ Stephen, excited by the possession of the ball looked at Mr Walsh. “Who?” He replied.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try To Be Impressed.

So with the All Blacks revered as the Demi-Gods of New Zealand, and having most recently won at the local sports stadium (Carrisbrook,  otherwise known to Rugby Union nations around the world as "the house of pain". I am sure it requires no real imagination from the readers of this blog, who, while they may be unfamiliar with the game of Rugby itself, to surmise how a sports ground could earn such an international 'unofficial' title.). Stephen, now proudly displayed to the class for show and tell, admittedly with some panache, a leather rugby ball covered in black pen squiggles, which he claimed was the ball used in that most recent of this international victory by the Demi-Gods themselves. This drew sounds of " oooooo " and Ahhh" from others in this school room audience. Myself, I was left a little uninspired, despite knowing my father's adoration of the team. It was a ball. And now it had been drawn on. I was yet to appreciate the value of signed sports merchandise to collectors of the world. Let's be honest, I still don't. 

I can understand the value of a singular work of art. A painting or sculpture or such, by an artist, whose work is revered or admired. When it is a single painting only. No other of it's like existing. Then, having that (particularly signed by the artist, discreetly in the corner of course, and not scrawled all over the surface of the object, as this ball was), and how, wanting that, could create a true sense of market value. After all the artwork would be unique. This ball however, may be one of several which could have been used in the game, or warm-up, if it was used in the game at all. And even though signed by the All Blacks (long may they be revered, - sorry, I should have been adding that after each time they were mentioned before, with a ceremonial tugging of a forelock in the direction of the home of Rugby), supposedly, then, unless this was the only time they played together and they never played again, the value seems to me to be fairly minuscule. But people will decide what they wish most to value, and collectors are the strangest of strange, when it comes to deciding what is of value and what is not. The greatest regret for many seems to be, they didn't hang on to something they had a s a child, when today it may well pay for their child's tuition through a college or university. Today, bizarrely, items are produced 'as collectables'. Manufactured as a set, series or collection. Pre-determined definition for the market, rather than decided by survival in the world. Hence they are not as rare as items valued previously. Items, whose value came about due to rarity, not profit.
(Continued tomorrow)

Try.... To The All Blacks

My father was very much a rugby (union) fan. And the All Blacks were the at the very least in his eyes (particularly when they won), The Demi-Gods of New Zealand. And we were expected to show true deference and respect.  Even God could not help you if you spoke out against the “All Blacks” (he could offer criticism, but not we children. There was not a test match that could pass without my father watching it. It wouldn’t matter if it was on the other side of the world against such fearsome teams (of that era) as  “The Lions, The Barbarians, The Welsh, Irish or Scotland (did they have a catchy name, I don’t recall, I just loved the unofficial anthem ‘Flower of Scotland’). For those overseas internationals, we would sometimes hear my father arise at the early morning hours to go to the lounge to watch a broadcast, once they started using Satellite technology. We would drift back to sleep, only to be woken at intervals by the roaring, cheering voice of my father, excitedly yelling “Go on! Go On!” You Beauty!” When a try was about to be scored by one of the All Blacks. Hen it wasn’t scored I’ll just say that other words were often expressed, which it was hard to understand through the closed door of our bedroom. We were occasionally allowed to sit at the back of the room and watch a local (New Zealand) televised game (even  though there was only the one channel on our televisions, you could be assured the game would be televised). The opportunity to watch the game came with set of strict rules which took a few attempts to learn. You could watch the game so long as ....

1)    You only supported the All Blacks

2)    You cheered loudly when the All Blacks scored a try (or kicked a goal)

3)    You cheered even louder when the All Blacks stopped a try being scored

4)    You did not support the opposition (instant banishment).

5)    You did not agree with the referee when he made a decision against the All Blacks (even if he was right)

6)    You did not cheer for an opposition try (where was the sportsmanship?)

7)    You did not talk about anything other than the game.

8)    You did not fidget on the couch (which was behind where he sat in his chair)

9)    You did not jiggle your leg when sitting on the couch.

And especially : You did not laugh or make a noise and wake him, when father fell asleep during a game in his chair and started to snore.

This was often what happened if it was a replay of a televised game, which our father had got up to watch in the middle of the night. When, since rugby is a winter game (northern hemisphere seasons when being televised by satellite), and on a warm sunny day, sitting in ‘his chair’ after a few beers and a lunch (mock whitebait fritters – deep fried hash browns are the nearest comparison), and he had drifted off to sleep during the game, and you laughed and woke him..... Then that was up to you as to how you wished to be treated, tasked to some job that needed to be done, but naturally sent from the room.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try This Move

Mr Walsh finally turned. Perhaps hearing the slightly desperate pleading in my voice. “I believe I said it can wait till tomorrow, Stephen?” He repeated. “Er ...” Ummm” Stephen stammered out. “He only has the ball for today, Mr Walsh.” I interjected quickly. Nodding keenly in the direction of Stephen and his ball. Mr Walsh paused and looked from Stephen to me. “What ball?” He asked. “This ball, signed by the All blacks, Mr Walsh”. Stephen loudly claimed. “And you only have it for today?” Mr Walsh asked. “Yes, Sir. My father said I could take it to school for show and tell. Then he’s coming by to pick it up before our morning break. Since I’m not allowed to play with it. He said it’s very special.” Stephen replied more confidently. “Very well then, Stephen. If you could bring your ball up to the front of the class and tell us about it?”. Stephen stood up beaming. He picked up the ball and walked towards the class, briefly looking in my direction. He suddenly ‘pulled a face’ at me as if to say “So, There!” Then he continued to the the front of the class. I didn’t get that. I had supported him in his bid to present the ball at show and tell, even got Mr Walsh’s attention in the matter. Secured a change of decision (Mr Walsh’s saying that was the end of show and tell after my piece) but I was the one who got the silly face thrown at him?’

Stephen reached the front of the class and, as mentioned, since he is a sizable lad, didn’t just get your attention, but tended to fill your field of vision, allowing you little opportunity to focus on anything else. He stooped his back to us. Then (dramatically, even for him), he turned in a swinging arc of some momentum and swung around to face us with the ball gripped firmly in his hands, in a well rehearsed move designed to further consolidate the attention he already had of his class mates (yes, in many ways, Stephen had mates the way I did not). He planted his foot with a slam. And definitely got everyone’s attention. The buildings floor shook for a moment. “This is the rugby ball used on Saturday’s game at Carrisbrook. In the test match that the All blacks won, and that the All blacks have all signed.” He paused for our awed responses and general adulation to not only the piece of leather he held, but to those small and scatter black squiggles scratched onto the leather.

Now, before I go on with the rest of this piece, there are two things you should know about in New Zealand. One, that the national sport (often referred to as the national religion by some) is considered to be Rugby Union. And two, the All Blacks is the name given to the National team, whomever they are at any time, are considered up there, if not as actual gods, then definitely in the realm of the demi-gods or at the very least, the Titans of power and respect. You don’t speak against them. You are supposed to stand below them in awe.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try To Prevent (another injury)

Now I have that little set of whinges out of the way, I will continue with the relevance of Stephen's comment and the special football he had wanted to present, following my 'performance of the poem in Mr Walsh's class (see blog Saturday 5th of January 2013) The poem had gone over well with the class and importantly, Mr Walsh. Not just the fact that I had learnt it by heart in a single day, but that it appeared I had created a 'performance' of the poem as well. I will just say that I had truthfully made up the actions on the spot, but had learnt the entire poem In the day as mentioned, all 60 plus lines. I had won over several members of the class. I had my first rave reviews, and just as suddenly my first critic, Stephen (and obviously for personal reasons, just like many of those in the real working world of drama critiques).  

Stephens comment had come after his show and tell had been postponed due to the length of my piece and the added 'performance' time required, rather than just the narrating of the words (it was very important to drive around as a car, when describing Ethelred's reversing technique). I was a little in fear of Stephen, due to his size, rather than any other reason. Alright everyone was a lot in fear of Stephen, because of his size! And, having suddenly come up on the wrong side, I had a new reason to suddenly be watching my back ( and my front, my side, and especially my head) in the very near future. The look Stephen gave me spoke volumes. Volumes, referring not to the decibels of 'ringing bells' I  would likely be hearing later in the day, due to several whacks I would be receiving. I was referring to volumes as, volumes of books ( if Stephen's intentions and ideas for assaulting me were ever written down, they would fill several large bound issues) volumes of  ways I was going to be assaulted due to his 'rugby ball' ( with all the black scribbles on it) not being shown in class. 

I felt it was important that Mr Walsh be made aware that Stephen had something very important to share with the class. I considered his presentation was crucial. Vital in fact, that everyone got to pay attention to Stephen, rather than have Stephen pay attention, only to me. I knew what that would mean. It would not be the first time I had received the attentions of a stronger, more dangerous student. I had unfortunately been knocked to the ground by another student in the previous year. I had taken the fall, and faked unconsciousness rather than get up and be hit again. Unfortunately, that had led to a fair amount of school exclusion, and compounded my disrespect for several other students, whom had persisted with name calling and other methods of bullying, throughout the year. Another unpleasant school year had passed in disappointment.
(Continued tomorrow)

Try The Language

So, there it is. Improve the ridiculous system in the Australian schools and we might have a better group of graduates (regardless of their ages), who will help to improve society, rather than be a burden to it. It does not seem to be an impossible suggestion. But why are so many too scared to implement it? Make an individual feel, like an individual. Make a person responsible for their actions, behaviours and responses. Is some of this fear of potential labelling, affected by the impact of that terrible ‘government driven creature hiding in the corners of our society? The concept that is forcing it’s way deeper, and deeper, into our social framework, with ever increasing effects for it’s over-bearing rules? I refer to the dreadfully, all-encompassing stupidness of political correctness? But  again (yes, time and time again) I digress from my original line of revelation. Here, I had just done my first significant performance to a delighted audience of my fellow class ‘mates’ (not that I ever really felt close to any of them, but then they were called ‘mates’ anyway). But there again, 'mates' is a term of  Australian ‘historical’ reference and significance, which is, according to a recent news story (apparently), not going to be permitted to be used by staff in some hospitals in Australia. It has been deemed as ‘too familiar’.

I will just say there is a word missing in the definition of political correctness, that word is ‘context’. What is the purpose and context of the language? Mate, is usually a friendly term, when you do not know the name of whom you are dealing with. It is a way of comforting communication  to encourage the trust with those you are speaking to. It is not demeaning, sexist or derogatory, unless, ‘you’ want it to be. So before you scream, “Inappropriate use of language’ from your glittering towers of political correctness, look at the context of any of the language or terms being used, and decide in each individual case, is it appropriate or not? You cannot create a blanket rule for the use of any specific word or term.

A classic example is the argument for changing certain words. This drive to change ‘man’ holes (drain covers in the road way and footpaths) to ‘people holes’ or (this is my favourite) ‘fore man’ to ‘fore person’. The first problem is the meaning of the title. It is not gender specific. A ‘Fore man’ is a name that came from the Latin. ‘Fore mana’ meaning ‘Leading Hand’ It is nothing to do with gender! It does not specify male or female. It meant the one who directed, taught or instructed. I keep telling those who scream for the application of political correctness to such a term, to learn the base language, and understand the word, before crying out for the change, simply  for the sake of three letters (m.a.n.). Or are we going to start calling the insect the ‘praying people-tis” (Praying Mantis)? Or will they demand that people go and get a ‘people-icure (manicure)?

(Continued tomorrow)

Try To Educate. Please.

Stephen was staring at me. His large hand resting on a large, leather rugby ball (that famous large, egg-like ovoid). There were squiggles over different parts (signatures it turned out), which were as black as the look he was giving me now. “Sir?” He started to ask Mr Walsh. “Sorry, Stephen” Mr Walsh replied, “Maybe tomorrow?” “But, Sir…?” Unfortunately, Mr Walsh was wishing to carry on with the class lesson. “That will do Stephen. I said tomorrow” He turned back to the blackboard, unfortunately not hearing the remainder of Stephen’s request as Stephen’s voice faded. “I’ve only got the ball for today.” His gaze shifted back to me with a scowl. “You were shit anyway Dwyer!” He added to me.

Yes, only nine years old and listen to the mouth he had. Though by his size we think his parents had lied and he had been held back a few years. Or maybe it was for the benefit of the rugby club? I do have a question. Why did that used to happen then, and not happen now? Kids could be held back a class if they didn’t achieve the right level. There are children in schools today (in Australia) who do not pass any basic levels of comprehension or academic achievement, but who are pushed up through the levels anyway. How is that possible? They are not educated. They are missing huge areas of understanding and ability and, are the worse off for it. Yet, today, they are apparently promoted up in the levels until it is time to leave school regardless of their actually attaining the necessary abilities. It has been suggested that this is so they don’t develop any stigma for being unable to manage their school-work amongst their fellow students. Seriously? They are in fact, criticised more as they go up through the levels by the other children, because they are holding the successful students up in the higher level class, as the basics are again explained to them. Again and again.

They are then identified as a problem student by teachers, who themselves become frustrated with the constant distraction of having to re-educate what these children should have been taught in the previous level classes. But then, they are simply promoted at the end of the year as they become the next teachers problem, or worse, they are then put into a special class to work on what they should know. Yet still kept at the level they should never have been put up to in the first place. Then, suddenly, the school years are over (set quota of years) and they graduate? Graduate. They still can’t even spell the word. Sure! Lets throw up these kids, eject them at the top level of school (year 11 or 12) and thrust them out, unprepared into the work force, where, they not only are stigmatised, but become a burden on family and society, because they do not have the basics of a simple education. What is their potential future? What will they get to contribute? It is that worst of Orwellian Predictions, an uneducated mass to do the most menial work for the successful?

(Continued tomorrow)

Try That Response

I had done it. I had not only presented the poem, but had ‘entertained’ the class. It didn’t matter to me suddenly, if I was clever or not. I was more importantly, feeling happy. Really happy. I have been told it is one of the rarest of moments. True happiness. That very instance in my personal history, being before a group of people had changed my entire feeling. Even more than the reading I had done in church when just six (see blog Saturday 1^st December 2012) this was a major moment in my life. I can actually link this to much of what I have since done. In fact, it indicated something possible in my future direction, behaviour and attitude. I was aware of Mr Walsh smiling and regaining control on a classroom that had really got into it. I felt great. I had enjoyed the reaction from the class. I had actually ‘fed’ on the response. This was definitely an indication of that future direction. I could suddenly see me performing again before other people. One clear effect was, apart from thoroughly enjoying it, was not having to be me. I could pretend to be someone else and ‘hide’ behind the persona.

I had discovered there was definitely something in the idea of stepping away from the ‘me’. I had never felt more comfortable with these students than I did at the end of the poem. There was a certain respect from. The potential sneers I had anticipated when I set out to deliver the poem, had disappeared into grins and laughter as I acted the tale. I had, I realised never felt more comfortable in general, than I did as ‘the storyteller’. I had not simply been reciting a poem, I had acted it out, as a diverse range of ‘characters’ and I had become them all, briefly. The child, the car, the mother, teacher and narrator.  It was really exciting. I had found an outlet that I would need to explore again.

Meanwhile the class had settled down, Beaming happily, at everyone in my joy, I made my way back to my seat, acknowledging the various nods from several of the students. One or two even patted (pushed) me on the back as I made my way down the aisle. It felt good. Actually it felt great. I sat down and looked around at my fellow students. Gathering all the accolades I could before we heard from the next person. Then Mr Walsh made a decision. “I think that’s all we’ll have today for show and tell”. There was a slightly angry “What?” from just behind me. “We have to get on with the lessons” Mr Walsh continued. I glanced around to look straight at the face of Stephen. One of the ‘larger’ students in the class. He played junior rugby and looked like it. In fact he looked like half the ‘scrum pack’ (the scrum in rugby union is usually formed by up to eight players, so you get the idea as to how large this lad actually was?) And he didn’t look too happy. He didn’t look too happy… straight at me.

(Continued tomorrow)

Try This version

I was suddenly facing a group of people, who would not care how clever I was. That was a real mistake I made in my early years (on more than one occasion). Trying to show others that I was clever. Or thought I was. They were not going to be just a tough audience. They were going to be…. Wait a minute! That was it. They were an audience. I should treat them as an audience who were at a show. They didn’t want a boring recitation, They wanted something that would entertain them. The concept came to me very suddenly. I looked back at Mr Walsh, about to begin the recitation, I realised this was another way to present the poem. Some people would call it divine intervention. It wasn’t ‘divine intervention’ (I was certainly well out of range of any catholic schools and nuns). Thinking about the cause, I am also sure it wasn’t because of his wife. Back then I didn’t even know his wife was an actress. But ‘Acting it out’ was the idea. Act out the poem’s character, Ethelred. We played games like that at home sometimes. Charades and such. And there was a certain amount of entertainment at home on various occasions, with sisters who could play guitars and violins and most of us enjoyed singing (or thought we could). We fooled around a lot at home acting things out that we had seen in movies, or making up things with our toys. So why not. A voice character thrown in and…….. How difficult would this be?

So there it was. I opened my mouth to start and immediately dropped down to my knees “Young Ethelred was only three”, (see, dropped down to look shorter, like a child) This, got the attention of them all. They suddenly sat up in their chairs and were looking over the edges of their desks. Mr Walsh even looked surprised. “Or thereabouts when he..” I continued. And went on. Becoming not just Ethelred, but his mother (silly voice and all), the ‘Ethelred’ as a Packford 8 motor car (silly car noises and all), and the headmaster who “caned him on his number plate” (silly sound effect -clang, clang, clang) By then my fellow classmates were actually laughing out loud. There was the odd ‘whoop’ of joy as I ‘reversed’ and ‘drove’ around (on all my fours) at the front of the class. I knew I knew the poem, so not having to read it, gave me plenty of leeway in presenting the poem in this manner. Then, the tragic part of the tale. “He merely whirred a bit inside,
and gave a faint chug-chug, and died.” With that, I flipped over onto my back, legs in the air , in the worst of impersonations of something dead. Then stopped (dramatic pause). They clapped. Some of them clapped. I hadn’t finished yet, but they clapping and were laughing. I jumped to my feet. Slightly out of breath from the ‘performance’, and finished the poems last eight lines in a wave of happiness.

(Continued tomorrow)