Rough Beginnings

by Liz O'Neill

Background
We are now following Lizzy through her first four painful years of school.

There were no nurturing adults in my life until I hit fifth grade. Most memories of school are pretty bad, which was why I chose to become a teacher. Kids were going to have one year of good memories. I did not attend kindergarten which was privately run in our town; therefore most of the kids were already ahead of me in many respects and possibly bonded.

During my first or second grade, whenever I entered the little school grounds, there was one particular student who yelled, "No more cucumbers." They were playing jump rope so I was not invited. I'm grateful to my therapist for teaching and empowering me to become an initiator. When I was verbally reworking my childhood, I imagined myself going onto the playground invited by the kids to play.

My therapist suggested otherwise. He said, "What about if you come up with a game and you invited the others to play your game?" I rewrote such an incident, inventing a new game, and inviting them to play my game. They loved it and exclaimed how they thought it was the best game they had ever played.

The old me used to sit at our workshops in the Convent and listen to people at the break inviting each other someplace to get a cup of coffee or ice cream. After learning to become an initiator I no longer sat in the chair wondering why no one invited me. I invited others and we had a great time.

My first challenge in school, in addition to rejection, was my left-handedness. I opened books from the back and proudly reversed every letter in my name on the chalkboard from right to left. I'm sure when the teacher saw me write my name exactly from right to left with every letter backwards, she may have muttered to herself, "We've got a problem here."

Arithmetic came very hard for me and still does. Being a visual learner, I needed to picture everything. The numbers I was supposed to be adding in my head, I imaged activity on the ceiling, making sweeps of numerals and plus signs with my pointer finger. I didn't learn to tell time until about 4th grade. I still do poorly, especially with the new digital clocks. I resolve if there is a time when face clocks with the hands becomes obsolete, I will strap a dead face watch on my wrist to make the translation.
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There was a ruler incident with one of my classmates whom I have since learned was schizophrenic. June would throw her ruler down the register to the cold air in front of our desks. The frustrated first-grade teacher would get June a new one, spank her hand with it, and give it to her. That ruler would promptly make its journey down the chute.

As the weeks waned so did the supply of rulers in the box. When there were no more new rulers to be issued, the resourceful teacher took mine. Offended eyes traced my ruler's path which followed every other ruler in the box. It was immediately swallowed up in the darkness of the gaping hole in front of us.

It’s quite possible this teacher went onto the next student who still possessed a ruler until the entire arsenal was feeding the fires of the furnace. There probably weren’t many activities requiring the use of a ruler in that classroom.

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Arithmetic came very hard for me and still does. A visual learner, the numbers I was supposed to be adding in my head, I pictured on the ceiling, making sweeps of numerals and plus signs with my pointer finger.

I didn't learn to tell time until about 4th grade. I still don't do well telling time, especially with the new digital clocks. I resolve, if there is a time when face clocks with the hands become obsolete, I will strap a dead face watch onto my wrist to make the translation.
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Almost every morning that substitute teacher greeted me in front of the entire class with a sarcastic, “Well, look who decided to come to school today.” I was already beginning to be bullied by the kids and now this heartless woman just confirmed that. This teacher would also be the one to wash my 3rd-grade mouth out with soap when I tattled on my 1st-grade ruler- nemesis. Of course, I had to repeat the bad word to be clear about the infraction of rules.
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This was also the time that I was trying to get around with a stitched-up knee so it was difficult for me to get down on the ground to play. The only other thing I remember from 2nd grade is a poem about a turtle that sat on a rock and snapped at flies. We children had to bring a little mirror to school to complete the image of the turtle, pictured in the book with only half a body.

This was a very poignant moment for me. For a minute I too felt whole.

There was space for a softball field on the school grounds, around the time and area Teddy chased me with his BB gun where I attended 4th grade. I noticed a change was taking place. My classmates began to respect me for my home runs and pitching ability.

My teacher, however, whom most intensely disliked, gave me an F in Health because after recess, when everyone had to stand in line for fingernail inspection, mine were dirty. The only other thing I remember of that year was sitting in the back by the supply cupboard with my friends. We held sinister grins as we secretly gorged ourselves with yummy forbidden paste.

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I shudder to think what I might have become if I had had my therapist guidance. He helped me discover an entirely different person than I thought I was. Our negative messages can do a lot of damage to us.

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The early school years were rough

A chapter in the book A Particular Friendship

Rough Beginnings

by Liz O'Neill

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