All Swollen

Unfortunately I wanted to reason with this irate nun. That was pointless. I couldn’t have got through to her anymore then, than if I had tried to convert her to Hinduism. She was not listening. Eventually in her dictatorial rage, I realised the other students had in fact set me up. They hadn’t just ‘not’ finished their assigned chores and gone out to play, they had maintained a vigil, so as soon as I left, after completing my task of cleaning the blackboard, they all returned to the classroom, appearing very industrious for the sisters return. She had of course returned to find, someone else wiping the blackboard (for show) and no Mr Dwyer. The children had then ‘reluctantly’ claimed I had thrown a tantrum and stormed off home, saying something derogatory about the sister (which they had been ‘forced’ to repeat to the nun). So now I was left to face the wrath of the nun, the bite of ‘Muddy Doo’ (six times on the right hand and six on the left) and the definition of a liar and villain. Not to mention the dire threats in between that I would be cast in the pits of Hell if I continued to behave in this way.

Lets face it, six smacks on each hand was excessive, even by my understanding. I could not even hold the broom she made me push about the classroom, trying to sweep the floor and ‘thinking on my sins’.

Finally, the punishment ended and I began the slow walk home over the  three short hills again. My hands had of course, swollen, my confidence, had shrunk. My loathing of all things religious was also growing disproportionately.  Why would we be put through this sort of ridiculous instruction. I thought religion was supposed to help you save your soul, so far all religion was doing was wrecking my childhood. What was worse was, once again I had done nothing wrong, but had received a violent punishment. How was I to learn right from wrong, when everything was so inconsistent?

I eventually made it home to a distracted mother who thought I had been out playing with ‘friends’ and had nearly got dinner ready for us all. My sisters thought I had just dawdled after school and hadn’t mentioned to my mother that I was on blackboard cleaning for the sister. My father had not yet come through from the post office section. That was thing about living in the same building as where our father worked. We knew when he actually finished for a change, when he came through to the living area, or, when he went up the road to the local to consume some post work beverages. I took my bag up the narrow staircase to the room I shared with my brother. I went back downstairs after washing my hands, well, running them under cold water for as long as I could. The moment I walked into the kitchen, my mother took one look at my face (crying tends to make you very puffy around the eyes) and said…..” What’s the matter?” Then suddenly, “What did you do?” “Nothing” I replied. “It was the sister. She got it wrong.”

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Good Children

I couldn’t understand it. “Why?” I called out to him as he turned back towards the school and that “I was nearly home”. “She said you better come back.” He took off down the short hill, and out of my line of sight and further vocals (my voice not yet as good at a theatrical bellow as it is today). I stood there confused. Should I ignore him? Would it matter if I ignored the ‘sister’s’ command and continued home? Of course it would. I wouldn’t put it past her to come flying straight to our house (on a broomstick, probably), brushing my parents aside with a swish of her cowl (habit) and grab me by the ear (The nuns always seemed to grab the children by the ear which resulted in many medical conditions) and take me, kicking and screaming back to the school (I knew I would only go kicking and screaming, I would of course, come back screaming, if I was taken). There was something going on back at the school. I realised that at least, as I turned and reluctantly trudged back the way I had come. Glancing back towards the wharf and watching the top storey of our stone domicile disappear from view.

I arrived back at the school a short time later. Well, I had thought it a short time, my legs not exactly being the longest devices to cover distances with. The sister was there, as were strangely, all the other children. The sister watched my arrival and hit me, with all the force of a 100 yards glare (twice as harsh as the fifty). “You children may go,” She said. “And thank you for your efforts”. Now I was confused. They hadn’t finished their tasks, but were being praised? I should have realised. As they departed, the bullies leaving last, sending an awful grin of triumph in my direction, unseen by the glaring nun.

They left, and in an instant, the nun was before me. It was a bit like those horror movies of old. One second she appeared to be glaring at me from the desk, then she was practically on my toes. Unfortunately I cringed, and that was all she wanted. ‘Muddy Doo’ (see blog 21st February 2013) slammed against the desk next to me. “How dare you walk out when I have told you to do something”, The nun breathed down on me, her voice angry, her breath, bad. Actually, imagine for a moment, a poor squire standing, dressed only in a rough sacking shift, before a massive fire-breathing dragon that had just destroyed his fully armoured master, I felt a bit like that in my mind. The sister was furious and the sound of ‘Muddy Doo’ hitting the desk suggested I was in very, very serious trouble… or potentially facing an unexpected death. But why? Hang on? Walk out? I opened my mouth to speak. “I didn’t walk out. I…” ‘Muddy Doo’ smashed down into the desk again. ‘Don’t add lying to your belligerent behaviour.” The sister was practically screaming at me. ‘Leaving the other children to do your tasks.” The Sister continued. “When I tell someone to do something, then, THEY WILL DO IT!” (With each word slammed out with rhythm by ‘Muddy Doo’ upon the desktop).

(Continued tomorrow)

All Done?

Once the rest of the class had left, following the reading from the book of Job, I had remained, as told, at my desk. Waiting to hear what further tasks, as well as the extreme blackboard cleaning (see blog Friday 22^nd February 2013), I was expected to do. My surprise at what happened next, must have been apparent, as, after briefly leaving the room, the sister returned with five students in tow. She walked in with them following, like meek ducklings. “Here are five other students who will be assisting you this afternoon, Mr Dwyer”. She said calmly. “Their teacher says they were also unnecessarily absent from class for some time”. Now, I don’t know if she realised it but… my jaw must have dropped. Three of them were the bullies. There was also two girls. One, a senior student, was put in charge of all of us, after the sister had outlined the various duties. I was, as expected given the task of cleaning the blackboard. Certainly the biggest task of all. I set about it as quickly as possible. I was not very large, and as mentioned to get water for the bucket I had to carry the bucket down to the toilets where there was a low basin and tap. Carrying up a bucket, one could only half fill it, otherwise you splashed water all the way back up the stairs and on the walkways. So needing four or five trips to keep the water clean, meant I was getting fairly tired. On my third trip back, I walked into the room as all the other students were leaving. I looked around. They had not completed their tasks, but as they left, the girl in charge said. “That’ll do”. I still had to finish the blackboard.

They all left and went down to the bottom field, but behind the toilet building. One of them, watching me from the side of the toilet block (well, I thought they were watching me as I continued). I finished the blackboard and went down to the girl in charge. “I have finished”. I told her. “Is it good?” She had asked. “Will sister be happy?” she asked (which was more important). “Yes”, I answered. “I believe she will be.” She shrugged and looked at the other children. “Okay, you might as well go home, Snitch”. I looked at her. “What?” I was surprised. The others came over. “Yeah, they said you snitched on us, that’s why we had to stay.” I looked at them. ‘Yes, I wanted to say it was you, but she wasn’t interested.” I explained. “Well, get home then.” They said. I was angry at this. I hadn’t been in the wrong, yet, I had again been punished. I walked back up to the shelf outside the classroom, collected my bag and began the walk home over the three hills. I still had to get home and do my homework. I had just crested the third hill and saw the building on the wharf, when a voice called out, “Dwyer! Sister says you have to come back.” I turned and saw one of the students on his bike, a way back. “What?” I asked. “Sister says get back and she is angry with you.” He hollered.

(Continued tomorrow)

All Religious Texts?

Her Decision? “Before we go home today”, The nun spoke clearly, “And thanks to young Mr Dwyer (which drew disguised angry glances in my direction from dismayed students, but was I believe, led primarily by a piercing glare from the nun herself, a glare which could have nailed me to the wall at fifty paces), we shall all read a passage from the ‘book of Job’(that’s from the bible), to help you all understand the importance of accepting suffering without blaming others”. I looked up. Was she serious? Did she understand, that I wasn’t questioning the suffering, I was complaining about being bullied? It wasn’t God who had come down and pushed my head into a toilet and flushed it repeatedly, it was three students at this school. But no, this misguided, religious zealot, ‘bride of Christ’, decided somehow it was a test of my ‘faith’ by God? “And then,” She concluded. “You may all go”. Ah well, that wasn’t too bad then. I could handle a bit of a read and then be off home. “Except Mr Dwyer (again the glare from her towards me), who will be staying to complete ‘several’ chores”, She finished deliberately looking at me. Challenging a response. That cheered up the others who had shown some dismay at hearing they were to be kept back. At least the one causing the extension was going to be getting more punishment than them.

We read the passage, which part specifically, I don’t recall exactly. Probably the bit about God agreeing to let Satan torment Job as well. Inflicting him with boils and illness. That’s kind of awful when you think about it. God agreed to destroy Job’s lifestyle, wipe out his family and make him suffer because Satan ‘dared’ him? Then, he let’s Satan have a go as well, just to prove a point? Old Testament stuff, you have to love it. Why would you want to follow a religion that develops that sort of behaviour? No wonder this nun thought bullies should be able to behave that way. It always makes me laugh that people who follow a religion, tend to chose bits of their texts with which they are comfortable. Which in itself is interesting. I have hundreds of books, but have not read them all ‘cover to cover’. I have often asked ‘people of faith’ if they have read their main text, and been told yes. “Liar!” I feel like screaming. Sure there are a few who may have read the entire text. I doubt that more than 10percent of any religious group have ever read their entire main text cover to cover. Don’t even get me started on the various versions and translations of their text they may have read. How does that work? Did God (of whatever religion you may follow) appear and say “Here is your text for this religion. If you don’t like what it says just translate the bits you don’t like into something more manageable. Make it so you are happy with it. I mean, when I said love thy neighbour, I probably didn’t mean the ‘Go forth and multiply’ bit at the same time) so, sort it out. And if in a few years you don’t like it, just write a different version, just keep the context if you can.”

(Continued tomorrow)

All Together, Unfair.

The unfortunate result of not going straight back to the classroom meant your absence would be noted by the teacher. The bullies meanwhile, returned to their class. Unfortunately these particular bullies were not in mine, and obviously re entered their classroom as innocent lambs. My delayed return, as I attempted to dry my shirt, the woollen jersey being an possible task given that the only towel system was a single wrap of fabric, was difficult enough. I had towel dried my hair, after rinsing it in fresh water, to remove the trace of any potential urine (although the multiple dunkings and flushes, tended to mean the final washes had been in relatively clean water). But it was the actual area of wetness of my shirt, that could be immediately identified by the other students (those whom had been victimised already, and those who had not, yet). The teachers could not have been ignorant to the fact that a student walking into the classroom with wet hair, shirt neck and upper chest area soaked, would not have done such a thing for their own amusement (particularly in the cold climate of a winter day in Port Chalmers). But it was the tardiness of the eventual return to the classroom that drew the ire of the teacher and the subsequent punishment. Of which, the cleaning and washing of the blackboard was the start. 

There I was being punished unfairly (again), this time because I had been bullied. Could I squeal and advise the nun? Of course I could. I began to say what had occurred. To which she said to me, "Enough! Do you want a bit of Muddy, Doo?" (See blog 21st February 2013) I did realise immediately that it was wiser to stop. Definitely unfair, but wise. I would have to take this up with a higher authority (and I wasn't referring to God). The principal. I asked permission to go and see him. To which the answer was a sharp whack on the legs from the vicious 'Muddy Doo' and with a squeal, I was sent to my seat to sit and drip dry with the nun demanding I would be staying after class to clean the blackboard and attend to 'other' tasks. Unfortunate as that was, there was obviously worse to come. I sat there seething (righteously, as it happens - about the only thing I really had in common with the religion I was being made to partake in). 

The bell for the end of the school day was carried raucously around the classes (literally around each levels walkways) by the privileged child from one of the upper levels. This was a bestowed honour by the principal, and a significant mark of importance. The school day was ended, but no one in my class dared move, until they were given permission by the nun. We sat and listened as other classrooms emptied and happy children (no longer in their class, and delighted no doubt at not being in ours), left to escape this fearsome place until tomorrow. Eventually the nun in charge of our class would allow the students to stand and exit the room. Today however she held us there longer. She looked sternly about the classroom. Then she delivered her decision.
(Continued tomorrow)

All The Bad Dudes....

The incident I am referring to, concerning the toilet block and the blackboard, was a culmination of certain bullying which had occurred at the school in the short time we had been attending. As with any school, there are bullies. Sometimes they are the biggest kid in the level, in the school or the best at a particular sport, so they receive a special status, which they often abuse (sadly this does not seem to be restricted to just New Zealand, where I was then living). Port Chalmers is, as mentioned near the entrance to Dunedin Harbour, a natural water basin in the bowl of an extinct volcano (or volcanic activity at least. A geologist could advise a little better on that specific). Therefore, the entrance to the harbour was through the top edge of the rim. Hence a hilly section of landscape. There were three hills between the harbour mouth and the wharf, with two further hills between the wharf and our school. Short, steep hills. The school was built on a hillside, on three levels from the street, where the church, convent and office were situated, down a level to the first set of classrooms, and then down to the base of the steep hill to the lowest level play area. The toilets for the school were also on the lowest level at the back of the school. That was the advantage for the school bully and his 'entourage'. The toilets were furthest away from the classroom and especially the offices of the senior staff.

I had unfortunately been cornered by the main bully on several occasions, but one particular incident left me feeling somewhat sickened by their behaviour. Having my head pushed into a toilet bowl and having it 'flushed'. Apart from the physical pain of the bullies pushing you, holding you by the neck and usually, as you resisted, banging your head on the wooden seat (which usually stunk), before slamming your head down into the ceramic bowl, one of them had urinated in (which stunk worse). The flushing usually involved multiple pulls of the cord to complete. So you eventually came up gasping for breath, having swallowed a quantity of various liquids. Gross, indecent and vile behaviour. I often wonder what became of these then, young thugs, did they grow up, join the army and are they the ones who introduced 'water boarding' into military interrogation techniques. I wouldn't be surprised. Given the number of bullies I encountered, there certainly wouldn't be a shortage of them looking for that type of employment. I wonder if they are recruited early in their schooling to develop that skill?

Not only would you finally rise up from the long suspended 'dunking', but you would of course, be wet around the head and shoulders and too embarrassed to return to class as everyone would know what had happened to you. It was a humiliating and disagreeable abuse by 'fellow students'. Is it any wonder I never developed great respect for many other young people at school, but anger at the treatment by some of the others. Why do the bullies still persist with their behaviour?
(Continued tomorrow)

All The Names...

The reason I recalled this teacher, was not initially because of the incident which followed, but because I recall she had a totally unpredictable system of selecting who cleaned the chalk from off the blackboards. And her demand for cleaning was not just 'wiped off with a duster', but washed, with three lots of water to remove all traces of chalk dust off the blackboard, to ensure her chalk could clearly be read by those students right at the back.  I kid you not. This meant that after you had stayed behind and wiped the board with the duster, washed the blackboard with one, two, then three lots of water (ensuring in between each bucket load, you rinsed the chalk dust out of the cloths completely otherwise it only smeared onto the blackboards surface). You then had to dry the blackboard off with an old piece of towelling. There were to be no streaks, smears or lines left by the water. In fact the piece of towelling should also be clean of any dust, and there should never be any blackboard paint appearing on the towelling. Any evidence of black paint on the towelling meant you then had another task before you could leave. you had to wash out the fabric until all traces of the black was removed from the towelling. This last was practically impossible. Blackboard paint was black, the paint was also unvarnished (otherwise you could not write on it with chalk), so of course if you wet the paint sufficiently, traces would end up on the cloth you used to dry it with. Logical, I realise that now. There would always be traces of black on the towelling so you would always have to wash the cloth before able to go home. Oh, did I mention it was always cold water from a tap in the toilet block that you had to use to fill the bucket? It was this toilet block tap, and the toilet block, that led to one of the more significant incidents between my self and the nuns of the Catholic Church.

On this particular day the 'black demon' (and I am not referring to the strap as mentioned yesterday), strode down the class. Please don't anyone say to me that nuns 'remind them of penguins'. Unless you are referring to a bunch of aggressive black and white sneaky birds, prepared to do anything to other penguins, providing they end up with the best nest. But assuming anyone saying that, is using the visual, that a group of nuns walking give a similar motion to a small colony (or 'waddle' - waddle of penguins is kind of cute though isn't it?) of penguins, I could only hope for the sudden appearance of a starving leopard seal mistaking the rapidly approaching nun for a penguin and thus putting me out of the forthcoming horror. It wasn't going to happen. Firstly, because there was no hole in the classroom floor for a leopard seal to suddenly rise up from and take her, and secondly, that leopard seal would likely receive the full weight of "muddy doo" (see blog 21st February 2013) painfully on it's snout before it could close its jaw around the cowled neck of the nun's habit.
(Continued tomorrow)

All In How You Say It

He was subtle , Mr Walsh. Nobody probably even thought twice of me being asked to clean the blackboard. Mr Walsh always asked someone at the end of the day, and only occasionally, was it a person who had misbehaved. He certainly shared it around. Even if someone claimed their 'mother was waiting for them', Mr Walsh would calmly reply. "And I am sure this will not be the last time you will keep her waiting, but this time there is a genuine reason." It would not usually take very long to wipe down the two blackboards (excluding the bottom right corner where the homework list was kept), so, no ones mother was ever kept waiting very long. With Mr Walsh, asking me to wipe down the boards, raised no suspicions, he was fair in sharing the load. Now I know I said I would finish this story fairly quickly and not draw it out (particularly as there are only 30 more entries, before my promise of one years worth of daily writing submissions to this blog is completed), but, this has just reminded me of an incident involving another school teacher, who did not understand what fair was. She was a lot more terrifying than Mr Walsh and as quick with the punishment (and possibly morally ineffective) as my father, when it came to discipline. I recall she also refused to listen to reasons, but decided autocratically, who should be punished (ultimately claiming at the end of the disposing out of the punishment, it was 'God's will' that it be done - I would kind of have liked a second opinion from him on that) 

This frightening teacher was encountered during our time in the town of Port Chalmers. A small town in the entry to Dunedin Harbour. The wharf on which we practically lived in the old stone Post Office (my father being the postmaster there), was the original wharf from where the first shipment of frozen meat was sent from New Zealand to Great Britain in 1882 (yes, that was eighteen eighty two) so some ninety years later I had a teacher who's attitude to students must have been transplanted from then. She must have been raised on the system of the work houses and the factories of the industrial revolution. Combine that with the fact that she was a nun, of the older religious zealot type, was it any wonder we children were constantly being admonished for everything, by way of the thick, short piece of black leather known as "a strap" (but which I thought she called 'muddy doo'. For, when hitting us she sometimes called out, "Do you want another taste of "Muddy Doo" It wasn't until years later, when studying mythologies, I came across a reference to "Mauthe Doog" in Welsh folklore. It is, according to the texts I was reading, pronounced "Moddey Dhoo" and is the name of one of the hounds of Hell. Obviously the nun, had a bit of Welsh history). So she kept it within reach all hours of the school day. Any transgression, from writing with your left hand, to looking out the window at the wrong moment, could bring down the wrath of "Muddy Doo". And "Muddy Doo" left one heck of a bite.
(Continued tomorrow)

All Done For The Day

You would, in that first second, of reverse time travel, be 460 metres away (in a direction relative to the equator) from where you were, and then, you would also be 18.6 kilometres away (relative to the sun), and, an estimated 136.1 kilometres away (relative to the centre of the galaxy). So adding that up, and deliberately not including ‘relative to the expanding universe’ concept, you are in that one second of reverse time travel, approximately one hundred and fifty five point one six kilometres away from the previous seconds place in space. So if you wanted to go back just five minutes in time, you would need to move the entire galaxy (we didn’t count the universe movement) approximately 46,548 kilometres back. That would take some doing. Of course every major investigation tries to speed up the process and complexities, by suggesting ‘folding space’ and using a ‘worm hole’ to connect the two points. Lets face it, most people can’t even fold a dish cloth, or a sheet. How would they expect to fold space?

The amazing thing about space and time is to measure it you have to make it relative to something. Where you are, to where you had been. So I realised, many, many years ago, sometime after the Mr Walsh incident, that time travel and space were crucial to consider. I wrote a short story of a man achieving time travel and failing to carry a small decimal point in his calculations and ended up materialising in the very middle of a newly constructed wall. Dead centre of it, you could say. I also understood, you couldn’t time travel in a direction opposite to the motion and rotation of the earth, otherwise you would very well end up inside it at some point. Getting confusing isn’t it?

But, sitting in Mr Walsh’s class and waiting for the afternoon to come to an end, to learn my real fate (at the hands of my father no doubt), time was certainly relative, just to the ‘space’ I was sitting in. I was feeling seriously stressed, the other students must have known something had happened, and I was sure they were focusing their glances and thoughts at me. Two hours dragged by soooo slowly. Then it was finished. The final bell rang for the day and the class continued writing the last part of the chalked text from the blackboard. Mr Walsh encouraged us to ensure we had written down the actual required homework, which he always left in the lower right hand side of the blackboard till the following day. Just to prove that what he had expected to be done should have been. Very effective method that (we even tried rubbing it out one day, when we cleaned the board, only to find it back when we came into school that next morning. He wasn’t going to fall for that). He then asked all the students to put away their books, pencils and rulers and clear up the desk tops. As the students complied, Mr Walsh then stated, ‘Mr Dwyer, you may clean the blackboard.” And continued to the rest of the class, “Good afternoon everybody” The students then replied “Good Afternoon Mr Walsh”, before standing and filing out to their bags (It used to be like that. Polite students acting appropriately). I approached the blackboard to clean it.

(Continued tomorrow)

All Relative Really

Time. We often think about it. It affects everyone. We are born, we live, we die (that last part for most people is still in consideration). Time. We are all familiar with songs about it.  There’s over three hundred and twenty published songs alone, with the word ‘time’ in their title. ‘Time is on our side’, so sang the Rolling Stones (boy were they wrong), ‘(If I could save) Time in a bottle’, sang Jim Croce, ‘For the Longest Time’, sang Billy Joel (some years later), and best of all (one I love) the ‘Theme song’ from Casablanca (written by Herman Humfield) ‘As Time Goes By’. I know it wasn’t really the theme song, but the film is certainly what everyone thinks of, when they hear it. Me, all I could think was, how long was that afternoon’s class truly going to last (and that was nothing to sing about).

I myself had often wondered about time. I had, during my childhood, been in many situations where I had wished to control time and speed it up, to get something over with. Or, at least, to have turned time back, to have undone what I may have caused to have happened. The incident with my brother (see blog 1^st April 2012, and onwards), for example, the moment the stilt came falling down, I know I wished I could have reversed time and reconsidered my choice of projectile (to get the kite from the tree, not to have hit my brother with). Actually, that projectile throwing was about physics as well, wasn’t it. Time is always about physics. And space. Time is also about space. The speed of the earth, travelling through space, would prevent time travel wouldn’t it? Lets look at it from a point of view, relative to the earth, let’s say. Because to consider time, you have to consider space, and to consider space, it has to be relative to something. So let’s say the earth, without going all cosmic.

But if time is going backwards, then I suppose, the earth would as well. And if the earth went backwards then you would be going backwards, and to achieve any sort of change to the situation, you would need to actually stop or freeze time for a moment (everything, except you of course), to be able to reconsider what you needed to change, to prevent what happened, from happening. You wouldn’t really be able to change things at all, unless you could put yourself outside of time (and therefore outside of space). As you would be going backwards as well as freezing time. The second you went backwards in time (if you could go outside of time), then, logically, you would be in a different location (in space).  That is a given. As the surface of the earth at the equator moves at a speed of 460 meters per second--or roughly 1,000 miles per hour relative to the centre point of the earth. And not to mention how far removed you would be cosmically?

(Continued tomorrow)

All Very Simple, Really.

So what is it about religion and this need to separate all into different branches, customs and versions. If there really is belief, then surely it is simply Faith. Faith, as a belief, in a supreme being, who created all. Mind you some religions divide each act into a separate deity. Each deity having a specific relationship, to each other. There is a rank and structure that each deity has, and in some cases, deities have gone up against each other in a war. In the religion, not even in the name of religion. Now whose confused? It is this sort of storytelling, which over time, demonstrates how humankind has applied their fears and hopes to a concept, to explain what they do not understand. They started to create rituals to explain the occurrences. They then decided to call it ‘Religion’. They then formed rules of their religion. They decided what was to be. Sure there are many instances in different religions where the various ‘Gods’ had ‘allegedly’ provided the actual original rules and outlines to one or two specially selected ‘prophets’. And they were apparently written down exactly as was dictated to them? Have you ever done dictation? Trying to keep up with exactly with what was said as a person speaks it? There is no way you can do it unless the speaker slows down completely. I can just imagine ‘God’ waiting while Moses chiseled out the Commandments. Both times. Since he smashed the first lot in protest to the celebration of a newly formed religion which had occurred while he was getting the first lot (40 days, to write ten commandments? Maybe he did some practice carvings each day before doing the good version?). Then there’s the Koran as told to another prophet. That’s a lot of writing. Even for a moment assuming ‘Gods’ do not ‘speak’ in the sense of vocalising, there is still the actual task of writing out what God had said. But, my argument is, show me a religion, where the influence in the writing is not based upon humankind’s thinking. How could we possibly understand the thoughts of a ‘creator’. Except, do good or not. It is that easy.

So why are they so insistent on making everyone call this religion, but only in a particular way? Only in their particular way. Surely ‘Faith’ is all that is required. Belief or non-belief. I fall into the second category, but have no objection to those who want belief. I won’t force you to stop believing. So don’t try and force me to believe.

But, we were discussing time, the slowing down of, or, the speeding up. Maybe when it came to dictation, ‘God’ had slowed time down for those he was dictating too. Or created a temporal pocket around the one he was communicating with. Hey, if it was a ‘God’ then what could be simpler?

Time rules our lives regardless, and despite all of our wishes (at this point in history) we can’t change it. We can however draw out the emotion associated with good times. Bad times, such as me sitting through the afternoon’s class, waiting for the outcome with Mr Walsh, still felt very drawn out.

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Rituals

There was a mild panic between the teacher I had then, and parents in the classroom who were visiting for the presentation day (fortunately I suppose, mine weren’t). While I knew at that young age that Grace Kelly was beautiful, I hadn’t put together it was actually illegal to be a ‘cat burglar’. I was just excited by the idea of climbing around ledges of buildings and scaling the walls. All kids used to be. What happened to them? Nowadays there are pure extremes. Kids who don’t want to walk out of the house and then kids who are pushing the envelope of the extreme and jumping over houses. For me It wasn’t the idea of breaking in to steal, that had appealed to my young mind, it was the ‘how’ in the way they did it. This situation with Mr Walsh, a few years later, was different of course. I had intended the act of stealing, and been found out by Mr Walsh. So far I had not been revealed to the class. So far. Was it a possibility that Mr Walsh would reveal what I had done wrong? How would I feel then? I was uncomfortable now knowing that the class ‘might’ know what I had done. How would I feel if they ‘did’ know? This was obviously Mr Walsh’s plan. This was part of the consequences he had referred to when he told me to see him after class. He wanted to know what I had thought about during the afternoons class. Which dragged on and on. I was sure my class never took this long normally.

I know as children (and at times even now) We all wished there was a way to control time. When we wanted something to happen more quickly, or be over sooner. I know we spent many hours sitting in church, wishing it was over. The interminable, archaic rituals of the service. The sitting, standing, kneeling, standing again, then sitting and then, listening to the droning of the priest as he delivered the sermon. His ‘opinion’ of what the congregation should be paying attention to (or probably, the orders from on high as to what the congregation should be thinking about. What they think in Rome, should stay in Rome). There are too many variations in cultures, climates and countries for one religion to be all encompassing. A bit like suggesting the idea, that we should all eat one food, because it can be grown in one place. That does not ensure it can be grown everywhere. So why would religion be the same? I once argued with a nun about the use of creating an identification of a ‘God’ if you had never been introduced to one. Surely every religion only requires faith (Yes, I know, according to her I was being blasphemous, and, she probably wished her religion still practiced stoning. I would be first against the wall when the judgement came. Possibly she was handling her rosary, wishing the beads were larger stones and she could strike down the unbeliever and not have to do any penance for such a forthright act in defence of her beliefs).

(Continued tomorrow)

All Seeing?

So that’s the Catholic way? Cleansed for your sins if you are honestly sorry? Even knowing, that you only have to be sorry if you get caught, and even then if you don’t, then you need only be sorry and ask for forgiveness, just before you die. How convenient. Hardly the basis for sound, honest religious practices. And, with the current international climate of today’s upheavals and revelations (in the media, not the bibles chapters), probably evidence of why that particular religion is going through such problems? But that is another story, and I believe no religion in the world is free of such similar hypocrisies.

I was however faced with my own moral situation. I had stolen from someone (even though I had shared it out –see blog Jan 1^st 2013, but that wasn’t the point) Regardless of how any religion saw it. Mr Walsh had seen it, and, had spoken with me. He had not yelled or screamed. He had not swung at me nor struck me. He had spoken quietly. He had spoken of history and consequences. He had managed to make me cry, probably because of the calm manner he spoke with, of how I would be treated if others found out. He himself had given the stolen money to the boys, well not the actual stolen money, as I had spent that on the ice blocks. He had given them money, from his own pocket, so no one would know what I had done. Then, he made me sit through the afternoon’s class. I sat, feeling the pressing guilt of my actions. Feeling as if everyone knew I was a thief anyway. Every glance from another student, every comment appeared to refer to my illegal behaviour. Was this what Mr Walsh had meant when he said he wanted me to think about it? To be in a room of people who would think much less of me, if they had known what I had done.

But, he could still tell them all. He could simply in his quiet way, stop at any time during the lesson. Put down the chalk or the pointer. Ask all the students to stop writing. To place their pencils on their desks. And to pay attention to him at the front of the class. Then when all eyes were on him, he could in his quiet voice announce “We have a thief in the class today.” And wait for the reaction of the students.

It is in a way amusing that, when I was even a little younger, I had seen the movie “To catch a Thief” starring Cary Grant and the beautiful Grace Kelly (even as young as I was, I knew she was beautiful). In that movie there is a ‘cat burglar’ character. Climbing about the edges of buildings, down walls, along narrow ledges, very exciting. I wanted to be that cat burglar. I wanted to very much, that when asked on a special day at school, what we wanted to be when we grew up? I had proudly declared, “I want to be a cat burglar”.

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Religion in.....

The afternoon dragged by. The pressure on me built and built. If it was not a town of such cool temperatures, I am sure I would have been dripping in sweat from fear of being revealed. I sat throughout the rest of the day’s class, my guilt pressing down on me. Ruining all possible enjoyment in the learning I should have been taking pleasure in. The fact we were raised as Catholics (yes, deliberate use of the capital there), really comes to the forefront at times like this. There is an inbuilt guilt in being raised one (see blog May 3^rd 2012). Lets face it. The religion is really based on feeling guilty. The fact that the main figurehead, according to their text, sent his only son to take on all the sins of the human race, doesn’t that sound like the ultimate guilt. But that aside, I was young then and didn’t fully understand what religion really was at the time. Now I am older, I still don’t understand it, but know I don’t want it. Any of it! The fact that the various ideologies and the differing versions of those similar ideologies have divided the nations of the world, because of their simple differences in respect to colour, creed or even age. It’s frightening to think that entire civilisations, races and social structures have been destroyed through pure prejudice. As I said, I know now, as an adult, I personally don’t need religion.

There are those who do, of course. Nowadays, I know I don’t. That was the difference. I was a young child raised and told what to believe in. I was shaped to believe in a particular thing, in a particular way. Isn’t that what we would call brainwashing? Nations have conducted such elaborate mass conversions to produce a particular result. Sometimes in the name of their religion. For war, for control of the population. So why is religion allowed to do the same. Why can’t religion wait until a person has been educated to think for themselves and make the determination as to whether they wish to follow a religion or not. We can still receive guidance into right and wrong. Just as I was receiving then, sitting in Mr Walsh’s class, thinking of what I had done. I was feeling the full weight of the Catholic religion. What I had done was a sin. I had broken one of the commandments. One of the ‘Ten Commandments’. One of the foundations of the religion I had been raised to observe. I was only around nine years of age, and had pretty much condemned my ’soul’ to Hell (because if you believe in God, you have to believe in the other parts of the story). Although, apparently honest contrition could still save me. According to the religious observances of the Catholic church, honest contrition can clear you of your sins. That’s a bit too easy surely? Do the wrong thing and if sorry enough about it, you can wipe the black marks from your slate? What? That’s a bit like the Monopoly® board game isn’t it? A ‘get out of jail free’ card?

(Continued tomorrow)

All Eyes On Me?

Have you ever known a secret, something that no one else knows, and you have to sit in a room full of people and not tell them? It’s an exciting feeling isn’t it? That ‘possession’ of knowledge. The ‘privilege’ of special information. It’s a form of power in itself. It’s power but it is a powerful feeling as well. I’m sure there are many cases of possessing secret knowledge where everybody in the room ‘should’ be told the information but are not. One that springs to mind is political presentations. How often have politicians stood before a room full of people, knowing specifics about a situation or event, but avoiding sharing the information as they know it will not be acceptable to the people before them (or beneficial for the politicians career).  Or how about financial traders? How many times does someone possess knowledge that can affect millions (of people I mean, not the dollars but that will happen) but sharing the knowledge would level the playing field, and that’s not really the idea of financial trading is it? So there can be no argument that it is a form of power. It can be exciting, possessing the knowledge, and you can feel a real ‘buzz’ from holding out on the information. The longer you hold out that information the greater the feeling.

Unfortunately, holding onto information you don’t want people to know about, that will not be a benefit, can have a completely reverse ‘buzz’. It can be extremely stressful and actually make you feel ill (just like some politicians as well I suppose). I sat in the class room after lunch, knowing that I was guilty of stealing ‘E’ and ‘K’s’ money. Yet, ‘E’ and ‘K’ didn’t know I had stolen it. As Mr Walsh had given them the same amount of money I had taken, claiming, it was found in the playground. But ‘I’ knew I was guilty.  I knew something that I thought everyone else knew anyway. I was sure that others were looking at me with disgust, every time I caught the eye of another student in the room. Actually I tried to avoid eye contact with everyone, but, when the teacher is writing something on the blackboard, you do have to look up. In those few moments of looking up, and as students asked questions, other children in front of me would turn around to look at them. Catching my eye as I tried not to look around but kept my focus on the blackboard. Even that must have looked strange. One of those days I wished I sat at the front of the class. I truly didn’t know where to look. I certainly understood the concept that ‘Guilt must have been written on my face’. Or at least I must have gone red every time. I knew this was going to be a very uncomfortable afternoon. I only wanted it to be over so Mr Walsh would finish talking with me and tell me exactly what my punishment would be from the school. Not even wanting to think about what the punishment would be when I got home to my parents.

(Continued tomorrow)

All Snot What It Seems

I sat at the desk. Quiet now. Mr Walsh looked back at me. I was crying very hard. I was very ashamed. He could of course, see I was crying and stood up and crossed over to me. He reached into his pocket and gave me his handkerchief. It was ironed and folded neatly. “Stealing has consequences, Mr Dwyer. The sooner you learn that the better.” He said calmly. “I need you to think about them”. He stood beside and then gestured to leave the room. “I will speak with you this afternoon after class. Right now. Go and wash your face, the lunch break will soon be over. And a small suggestion, when you wash your face, don’t rub your eyes. It makes them red. Pat them dry.” He looked out to the playground. “Then go outside until the bell. Do not wait inside till class starts again.” He returned to his desk and sat down, looking out to the playground. I stood up from my desk and walked out the room. Blubbering, but trying to get some control. Still unsure of what was to come, by way of a punishment.

I went towards the toilets to wash my face as suggested. Then my nose already clogged needed blowing. I only had the handkerchief. Mr Walsh’s handkerchief. What do you do in that circumstance? What is the etiquette? Do I use his handkerchief to blow my nose? Filling it with my nasal slime and excretions. He gave it to me for a reason, but one would suppose it would be to simply wipe away the tears. Pat away, not wipe, as he said that makes your eyes red. Was I now to honk a blast of snot into it to clear my nose? Logically, it must have been a possibility when he gave it to me. I decided to hold my nose until I got to the toilet. That was a worse idea, as no sooner did I have to take a breath then I coughed. Snot sprayed out from my nose all over my hand and face. I was now leaking sticky slime as I made my way into the toilets.

When I exited, somewhat cleaner about the face, and with eyes that felt hot and red, although Mr Walsh’s suggestion of patting the eyes was good advice. I cautiously made my way out into the playground, feeling as if everyone was looking at me. Wondering if the word of why I had been spoken to by Mr Walsh, had already made it way around the grounds. There was no hiding from the guilt I felt. I waited off to the side of the school-rooms, looking about carefully to see what other students reactions would be to the report. Yet, Mr Walsh had said that the money belonging to ‘E’ and ‘K’ had been found and returned, so no-one would really know I was the person who took it? I was definitely still confused. There was more to come from Mr Walsh this afternoon but, in the meantime, I would have to sit through the afternoon class with this heavy guilt and now fear of the other students reaction.

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Hoons

Can you imagine thrash music lovers (I said thrash, not trash, Though maybe I meant trash, and some of you, if we are communicating effectively, would have read trash not thrash) and those heavy metal music lovers, sitting on the couch in their later years (50 plus). Will they still be slamming their heads up and down as they listen to the music? Probably they’ll end up in the hospital with dislocated necks and have the police still coming round with noise complaints as they are then so deaf, they need to have the music up twice as loud as when they were younger. Why does music have to be loud to apparently be enjoyed. Your hearing is temporary at best. If you are lucky it will last you till your forty. Before parts start getting lost. Many of the young people today, using personal earphones, unfortunately have the music so loud, their hearing may last till 30. Take a tip. Turn it down. Listen to the nuance of the music, not the volume.

What is it with the need of some … degenerates (it’s the only word I think applies) to have loud, very loud, at times extremely loud cars that thump and shake their way down the quiet suburban streets? I am not only referring to the ridiculous music systems they have in the cars; completely over sized and over-bassed, which produce so much noise the actual vehicles practically vibrate not just the windows, but the houses as they pass. Not only is the music repetitious, boring (sure it’s my opinion) and at times offensive (that, is not only my opinion) but they seem to understand its so bad, they have to drive around with the windows open so the dreadful music can escape the car. They obviously don’t want to listen to it either. I suggest, they want that music, wind their windows up and listen to it.

Then again, there are those with engines that drag in massive air with a tortured scream and huge noisy exhausts that cough out like a consumptive herd of hippopotamuses’, as they drive along those streets, annoying every other resident. The crash of cups can be heard, falling from kitchen shelves, vibrated from their place. If you ever wondered if sonic weapons exist, check what your local hoons are driving. Perhaps we haven’t done enough testing and research for our military? Maybe we could just send some of these cars overseas, with a few minor modifications to allow them to travel over the various terrain, and other armies would simply surrender just to get rid of them. They are never popular in any neighbourhood I know of.

I do know that sound affects people different ways. A mob can be manipulated by emotional noises, scared into motion by noises and single yelled phrases. So, while I had a parent who yelled when angry, and struck out at us in punishment, it tended to create a certain ‘auditory exclusion’, when instructions were being given out. Mr Walsh, had a completely different way of dealing with instruction, and now, as I sat crying at the desk he continued to explain what he meant.

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Volume

Have you ever noticed how a quietly spoken person can sometimes get your attention very effectively? I have seen many situations where the yelling, screaming person (which admittedly has sometimes been me) just doesn’t communicate and simply raises everyone’s blood pressure (including their own), triggering several waves of anger and frustration, creating negative feelings and emotions and, in particular creating ‘auditory exclusion’. That’s when due to focusing on a situation, your hearing actually shuts down and you can’t hear the instructions or events. It is a well known condition in many stressful situations, particularly if you have never been in the situation before. Many soldiers encounter ‘auditory exclusion’ during their first battle situations. Many people after a traffic incident will experience. In fact, probably during the accident is when it starts. This is why often witnesses are unreliable. As they experience stress, they stop listening.

I won’t deny there have been times when my loud voice has proven useful in passing on information, particularly when calmly raising my voice above a crowd, or above a loud sound system. But that is simply a matter of volume, not shouting or screaming. What I am referring to is stressful situations where loud, is not necessarily the best way to handle the situation. Going head to head with someone and screaming at their face is pointless. Simply yelling doesn’t work. I had been yelled at a lot by my father and occasionally my mother, brothers, sisters and not much happened. Instead if you can speak quietly, calmly and clearly when all about are….er… Isn’t that a quote? If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs…. No, I recall. It’s a Poem ‘IF’ by Rudyard Kipling. But I have seen that line butchered by the silly inspirational quotes If you can keep you your head when all about you are losing theirs… you probably don’t understand the situation. (or comedians) If you can keep your head when all those about you are losing theirs, you probably operate the guillotine.

However, just as might is not right, volume does not make it right either. The skill I have discovered in communication is, to get people to hear exactly what you are saying to them. Not what they think they hear you say, but what you want them to understand. It’s easy to miss that. Communication for the speaker is….I want you to hear what ‘I’ think I am saying, not what ‘you’ think I am saying. For the listener, I want to hear ‘what’ you are saying, not what I ‘think’ you are saying (subtle difference in emphasis isn’t it). There are definite similarities and if they can both be clearly met, then communication is achieved for both the speaker and the listener.  This is often a problem many encounter when dealing with people who are not actually suffering auditory exclusion, but are just ignorant and selfish. Getting people to take the volume down to a socially acceptable level, whether just voice or music and amplified sounds. And lets be honest, it is easier to listen if the volume is lower than a scream (although there are many heavy metal music lovers who seem to believe otherwise).

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Reasons Not To

“But, Sir. I…” I began to say, wondering how anyone could have found the stolen money in the playground, when I know I had spent it at the shop buying the ice blocks. “Yes, Mr Dwyer. You did steal their money. You did spend it. On ice blocks for all the children. Even ‘E’ and ‘K’ ”. He looked back outside. “You stole their money. I know that. You know that. They do not, and that is what we are talking about now.” He said calmly.

I want you to think very carefully what stealing means. What it means to you now, and what it will mean to you, if everyone else knew about it.”

Mr Walsh turned in his seat. He turned and faced me. He looked at me sternly. “I want you to learn this lesson now”.

I looked back in his calm face. This was being told off in a totally different way. There were no hands flying at me to hit me. I was not ducking and weaving to avoid hands or other items swinging at me. There was no yelling or screaming by the person telling me off (or from me as the various swipes and strikes landed). I was not being sent to my room to think about it and await a physical punishment by my fathers return home. That wasn’t to say it wasn’t going to happen. It just, right then it seemed Mr Walsh wanted me to think about what stealing really meant? To consider something other than the need to cover up what I had done. I was still a little confused over Mr Walsh saying the money had been found and returned, when I had already spent it. But he was still going to tell the class I had stolen the money? How was that possible? If the stolen money was found, and returned, it couldn’t have been spent? That was a logical sequence. You couldn’t spend something that hadn’t been stolen.

“I gave them the money,” Mr Walsh explained, as if reading my thoughts. I was stunned. He looked somewhat sadly at me. “From my own pocket.” That hit home. “I know you do not like watching them flash their money around. But it is their money. Not yours.” He continued. “I do not like the choice you made. Stealing.” He looked disappointed in me. I was disappointed in myself. “Stealing is a dreadful way to live.” He took a deep breath. “I know your mother would not appreciate what you did today. I know you didn’t steal and keep it to yourself, but you stole, and by doing so, you have harmed something else far more important. Your reputation.” He let that word sink in. He looked outside and then back to me. “Once you ruin your reputation, it is gone. Once people know you steal, you will always have people not trusting you. Whenever something happens and there is any doubt. You are the first one blamed. Stealing is a fast way to ruin your life.” The softness of his voice with which he said this to me added to the effectiveness of his words.

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Parties

Reading widely, and remembering what you have read, can be very disconcerting to many. Particularly when coupled with a generous spirit (that’s me) that wants to share what they have been reading, and offer it up to others (with the possibility to hear alternative ideas from them). Many think it strange the wide and various fields I show interest in, but I suppose, that should also be an indication to me, they are not interested in the information. This is one of my problems. For example, at work or elsewhere, when I have just read about a new field of scientific research (and that can be anything from quantum particles to epi-genetics) and there is a person whom I want to share the ideas with, to see what they think about it. At work, they listen politely for a moment, then walk away to their tasks. Or look stunned and shake their heads (various recommendations to increase my medication may also be made - ha ha). If this situation was a party situation, in about two seconds their eyes would glaze over, they would start looking about the room for an alternative conversation (usually to do with the latest league sports or fishing trip) and start making motions sideways towards that conversation instead.

A classic indicator, I had noticed on several occasions was the rapid glancing down to their drink, often partially filled (remember, a glass is always full. It can be partially filled with liquid and the remainder is completely filled with air), regretting they may have just refilled their glass before accidentally encountering the conversation with me. Before giving in and deciding that rapid consumption of the glasses contents, will give them an excuse to move away for a refill, and forget to return (could I be partly responsible for some peoples binge drinking?). I get it. I really do. It took a while, but now I am very aware of it. Hence I have stopped going out to social functions. This was the easiest of options. I have tried and found myself uncomfortable in these situations. Another interesting side effect I discovered was this; if at a party, and knowing I didn’t drink, and that I would probably remember everything that is said, done or seen, put many people on edge. Particularly those who would consume too much alcohol. So, I am happy not to go and they are happy not to see me. They still offer the invite, but imagine the slight panic that passes across their faces, if I actually suggest that I will accept the invitation?

So, the moment of quietness that Mr Walsh had asked for, as he prepared to reprimand me for taking the money from ‘E’ and ‘K’ arrived (see blog January 31^st 2013). I sat at the desk with tears on my cheeks. The sound of all the children outside carried clearly to us. I was ashamed. I was also fearful of what was to come. Public humiliation. Shame before the whole school. Then Mr Walsh explained something. “The money from ‘E’ and ‘K’ was found in the playground and returned to them.” I didn’t think I had heard him correctly. I looked up quizzically.

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Chatter

Quiet I was. As Mr Walsh had asked. I sat quietly in shame, and tears slowly fell down my face and splashed onto the top of my desk. Quiet. Perhaps that should have been the lesson I could have learnt for life. Being quiet. That I could have applied to my life. Things may well have been different if I had. I’m not generally quiet. In fact today I doubt anyone, who has ever met me, would say I am a ‘quiet’ person. I’m not noisy or loud. I am not obnoxious where I live (unlike the neighbours, who believe I should also like the same heavy, boring, loud, bass music they listen to). They are like the drivers of those vehicles who seem to believe that volume means quality. And, unless the vehicle is rattling with the deep, annoying percussion of their repetitious music, it’s not sounding good. I may not ‘rattle’ but some would say I have a habit of… ‘prattling’.

PRATTLE v. prat·tled, prat·tling, prat·tles

v.intr.                To talk or chatter idly or meaninglessly; babble or prate.

v.tr.                   To utter or express by chattering foolishly or babbling.

n.                      1. Idle or meaningless chatter; babble.

2. A sound suggestive of such chattering; a babbling noise.

That word probably best describes what happens with me nowadays and has done for some years. In a slightly nervous way. When confronted with people, I get edgey and start keenly speaking, talking, chatting, prattling. Although, to be honest, most of what I talk about simply covers a wide range of information, knowledge and anecdotes I have acquired over the years, from my personal library (which is fairly large and difficult to move; 126 wine box sized boxes of reference books last move), from the internet, newspapers and from conversations.  The problem for other people is, most are not really interested, hence they may think of it as meaningless chatter. I can assure you it isn’t. It’s just that those having to listen, are simply not interested in the subjects I sometimes offer for discussion. I guess to some, I am a bit like that bass sound emanating from the vehicles that cruise around all hours, booming about the neighbourhood; an unwanted sound in the background (and sometimes the foreground).

Don’t misunderstand me, many people have happily engaged in conversations and discussions with me, varied as the subjects may be, but, were they to encountered me in a social setting, given that I do not drink, and most others do, many seeing me coming would turn in another direction, rather than engage in a conversation about some interesting (to me) specialisation of subjects. Hence I have learnt while I am not comfortable in those social settings, those being spoken with definitely are not. So, for my peace of mind and others, I avoid social events. Politely refuse an invitation and everyone is a lot more relaxed and happy. Although some at work would be happier if I could minimise the conversations I start to engage in there as well.

(Continued tomorrow)

All About Others

Mr Walsh continued. “Mr Dwyer. There is no ‘real’ history of Robin Hood. There is a legend, there are versions, and each has it’s own truths I am sure. But, there is one clear issue. He was a thief. That is a label that cannot be removed, no matter how generously they paint the picture of him. No matter how much they create an icon of what they want him to be, he was still a thief. He robbed people. He stole. I don’t know if he only robbed the rich people. I am sure, at some point, that he robbed people who could afford it. No doubt he probably also robbed people, who could not afford it. But whoever started telling the history of Robin Hood, they only spoke about the rich people he robbed. Not necessarily because it was true. Probably, because it was a better story. So it stuck. Through time. Through …history.

But he was and always will be a thief.

He looked at me, somewhat sadly. “Taking the money of ‘E’ and ‘K’ today was very wrong.” Mr Walsh continued. “It doesn’t matter what you did with the money”. He looked hard at me. “By your actions today, you have shown that you are a thief. That you cannot be trusted around other people’s property.” He waved his hand about the room. “That we cannot trust you. Cannot leave you alone in case you steal from us.” Mr Walsh looked out at the playground. He looked at the children playing. “That you would steal from your friends?” He asked. “They’re not my friends. None of them like me”. I said.

“And why would they?” Mr Walsh asked, ignoring the whine in my complaint. “If they know you are going to steal from them?” Mr Walsh went on. “But I have never stolen from them…”, I said. Mr Walsh looked at me. He raised one greying eyebrow. “Till today” I said, my voice fading away quietly. “Till today.” Mr Walsh repeated. “And after today?” He suggested. “I won’t steal”’ I said. “But, how can we know that?” he asked. “You have let down a lot of people today, Mr Dwyer. Your mother and father, for example.” At the word ‘father’ I know I flinched. “Do you think they will be proud of what you did?” I shook my head. Mr Walsh continued, “You have let down your classmates. What will happen when I tell them what you have done?” He offered. I shook my head looking down, hard, at my desk. I knew I was starting to cry. I could feel the tears beginning. The shimmering, from the water, blinking over my eyeballs.  Mr Walsh was not yelling or screaming at me. But what he was saying upset me enormously. “You have also let ‘me’ down.” Mr Walsh stopped. I looked down at the desk. Tears fell “How can I trust you in my classroom after this?” he asked.

I started to say something, “I only…” “Quiet” He said softly and I was.

(Continued tomorrow)

All History Is Written By....

(While I have included many conversations in the blogs preceding anecdotes and stories, generally I have been able to recall the actual conversations or the ‘jist’ of them at least. The following comments are probably no more than a paraphrase of the conversation I had with Mr Walsh. Or more appropriately, the monologue he had with me (with the odd contribution I made. I recall ‘the message’ more than the exact words, but please appreciate the crucial nature of what he said to me, despite the situation I was in. This was one reason I believed he was one of the best real teachers I ever had)

He looked at me. He sat and thought for a moment. “History is a strange thing, Mr Dwyer.” He began. “There is a famous quote, History is written by the winners,” he continued. I looked at him curiously. “You must have realised by now, what you may read about, in non-fiction, will never be the whole truth. It will always be someone else’s version. With descriptions of battles for example, usually, it’s the person who didn’t lose at whatever happened. Or, perhaps they were the person who was in the safest place, when history actually happened. Perhaps it was written by someone, who held someone else in very high regard and wanted them to be remembered.” He paused. “Did you know there are no writings by the famous father of philosophy, Socrates?’ Then possibly remembering I was only nine years old (even though we were well read back then), He continued, “Well, you wouldn’t yet, But, he is only known to us, by the writings of his students, such as Plato, and the later philosophers?

He had paused. I looked at him for a moment. “So, perhaps Socrates didn’t actually exist, Sir”, I suggested, almost forgetting why I was there.

Mr Walsh looked back at me seriously. He considered what I said. “Perhaps. That could be argued, Mr Dwyer. But, I am sure ‘a’ Socrates existed, in some form. It is through the history we have of him, how he was written about, that we know ‘of’ him. Someone else of course, may write about someone. (Had he foreseen this blog? I wonder if he had ever dreamed a student of his would be writing about him) That is how history is written, by the winners, or, the survivors.” He paused again and looked at me. “Many ‘famous’ wars were, no doubt, very different at the time they were fought. But when they took the time to write about them, they probably changed one or two things to what suited them, the winners, to ‘tell’ the others. Other things they simply hid by omission. Famous events in history are usually no different. Someone wrote the history, sometimes a long time after the actual event.”

He paused and looked out the window. I looked at his face seriously for the first time. He was old. Well, older. Well, compared to we young students, he was very old (But I am sure, he was younger then, than I am now). He was certainly an older man compared to many of the other teachers. And how he managed his class was different to the other teachers. He had a way of talking ‘to’ the students, rather than ‘at’ the students, and he got their attention. He had my attention now. As I sat facing him after he had obviously identified me as the thief. Then he continued. “Things change over time. Such as the history, story or ‘the legend‘, that we know and the actual reality that was ‘Robin of Locksley or….?”

“Robin Hood” I supplied.

‘Robin Hood” He replied. “Exactly”.

 (Continued tomorrow)

All In Charge

Although I had considered it, I thought it unwise to involve others in my idea of committing the crime. The ‘mission’ I had chosen to accept (okay, it was all my idea, so there was no ‘offer’ of any mission to accept, but…), it was just me, there were no other members of the team who could be dis-avowed if caught. I was alone in my actions. Literally. In fact even today, if I do something (for good, nowadays, not for bad) it’s usually just me doing it, alone.

I’m still not really a ‘team’ player. Even with the army training I took part in when older, I was not the standard ‘grunt’, who could just accept a ridiculous direction or command (They weren’t all ridiculous, but there were enough ridiculous instructions, often enough, in the reserves with whom I trained). I usually tended to see a better way of doing the directed exercise, and a way that would keep everyone safe, keep up the necessary energy of those involved and, be more positive about what they were doing. I was regularly pulled aside on more than one occasion and told in no uncertain terms by more senior corporals and sergeants, to stop questioning the actions, and the directions (even if ‘I’ thought they were ridiculous) of those in charge above me. That was part of the training (Apparently). Think about it. They didn’t want soldiers on the ground to ask questions before doing what they were asked. I told them I didn’t have a problem with not questioning a ‘sensible’ command (Not the way to win the support of senior officers). Perhaps I should have put myself through the process of becoming an officer instead of trying to be ‘one of the team’ (which I really knew I wasn’t). Then I could have led by example. A good example. I didn’t however. Needless to say, my interest in the reserves fell away when I was not able to get into the area I wanted and I engaged more in my full time work. I was not cut out as a pure infantryman, despite my ability to apply myself mentally, physically and to understand the need for clear and precise instruction. I had often imagined if war occurred and I had to fight, I would end up in intelligence as a spy or such, or as a sniper… with a camera. Something I could do alone. As I said, not really a ‘team’ player. But very reliable.

Then however, I was not reliable. I was a thief, and had been caught. I was sitting in front of a very disappointed Mr Walsh. A teacher, whom I had recently impressed and gained some kudos with. But, whom now, looked at sadly. “You understand that what you did was wrong, don’t you Mr Dwyer?” He asked kindly. I nodded. “Yes, sir.” I spoke. “It was meant to be like Robin Hood.” I mumbled discouragingly. “Yes.” Mr Walsh said. He understood. “But despite the generosity of sharing the money you stole, there is nothing worse than being identified as a thief.” In the back of my mind I also doubted there would be stories about me in the years to come.

(Continued tomorrow)

All The Rhythm

I knew my father would have a suitably painful punishment, which he would no doubt enthusiastically apply to me, once he found out what I had done. It would be a massive punishment. This time, I had stolen more than a 5cent chocolate fish and looked at what had happened then (see blog Wednesday 7^th of November 2012). I did not doubt the fact, that, while everyone had shared in the ‘bounty’ of my misdeed, I had still stolen the money. That act of generosity, that ‘Robin Hood’ moment would not be taken into account. I would be the one to face the music. There’s a weird phrase isn’t it? When we are looking at a problem, or trouble, people say, “Might as well face the music.” So why would that be?  Trust me, my father never gave musical punishments. Unless you referred to the beat, of the non-rhythmical whacking, on my derriere (backside). Apart from a bad lesson in percussion. Then again, isn’t that the running joke about drummers? They can’t keep the beat? There is a story in my family, when my oldest sister was dating a musician and the poor lad was invited to dinner at our place (who would be so cruel). Sitting at the table opposite a line of staring children. my father had asked the usual fatherly question of him, “So, (name forgotten) What do you do for a job?” The lad had replied, “I’m a musician” Father looked unimpressed (unlike we children) “I’m a drummer” The nervous lad had continued. “And what do you do?” my father inquired, not understanding the employment role of a musician. The lad paused confused and looked at my sister, then back at my father. “I drum” was the forthright answer. My father had no concept of someone ‘working’ as a musician, particularly someone working as a drummer.” Thus ended the conversation.

But ‘facing the music’ as a phrase, appears to have a mixture of sources. Most of which are mid nineteenth century. There is the one where disgraced officers were drummed out of their regiment. Or, the one where actors/singers facing the audience, also faced the orchestra pit, and hence, ‘faced the music’. There is also the fact that musicians need to have the music in front when sight reading a piece,which can be a harrowing test. Thereby suggesting the face the troubles. I tend to lean towards another version. That armies used to march towards each other with drums, pipes or even horns and trumpets sounding to stir up the forces. Therefore, soldiers walking into a dreadful situation would hear the oncoming forces and of course, ‘face the music’ unless they turned and ran away. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?

However, whatever the source for such a phrase, I, was having to ‘face the music’ alone. And rightly so. Just as Robin Hood had always been responsible for what he had done. So was I. Although, he also had the ‘merry men’ to support him, aide him and rescue him. My plan had definitely not been thought through.

(Continued tomorrow)

All's Fair?

Am I a socialist? No, I don’t believe I am. I still don’t think everyone should get the same if they don’t make some sort of effort. Any effort made, for which you are capable of making. There are too many in our culture, who simply stand around with their hand out only, making no effort to contribute. They simply take and take. They are physically capable of doing something, but choose not to. I don’t believe they should continue to receive everything gratis. And then there are those, who, despite every obstacle, struggle to rise above those obstacles. They make every effort and more to try. Often it is a daily struggle. I believe they deserve more. However, right then I was not concerned with the rest of society, just my class. And now, I was in trouble for doing something I shouldn’t have, again. Stealing. At the word ‘stolen’ just uttered by Mr Walsh, I knew that many repercussions would follow. One of the worst, I thought would be the physical punishment I would be getting from my father. I was wrong. This was part of the lesson I was to learn from this circumstance.

“ ‘E….’ and ‘K…’ are not happy then are they?” Mr Walsh continued. He indicated where they were sitting down below us in the shaded area, finishing off the ice block they had received. They did not appear as happy as the other children admittedly. “You took the money, didn’t you, Mr Dwyer?” Mr Walsh asked. Well, he didn’t really ask. It was a statement. Rather than an actual question, but, I still felt the need to answer. “Yes, Mr Walsh” I replied. He moved away from the window and gestured me to sit down. I went to my seat. He looked at me. I looked at him for a moment. I was embarrassed. I was disappointed in myself. I looked down at my desk somewhat ashamed. The feeling of excitement I had experienced when I handed out the ice blocks to all the other children was disappearing already. There was the underlying edge of pleasure at having got ‘E’ and ‘K’ to pay for all the ice blocks, after the way they had treated all the other children. There was that.

But now, there were the consequences to be faced. I sat there at my desk and faced Mr Walsh. Wondering what the sequence would be. Would I be made an example of? Would Mr Walsh punish me in front of all the class. Using me as an example of what happens when you do the wrong thing. No doubt I would have to publicly apologise to ‘E’ and ‘K’ in front of everyone. That would be embarrassing. That would have repercussions for the rest of the year. I would be labelled a thief (the fact that I was is not missed by me). The worst of labels when amongst others. It meant that trust would never exist. I would not be trusted by any of the students, teachers or, once the story was told to parents, other adults. I would never be trusted by my parents again. If I survived the probable punishment from my father.

(Continued tomorrow)