You want to know something? I love Fridays! Fridays are better than all other days combined. To me, Friday is the chequered flag at the end of a long and brutal race, the final bell in a round against Mike Tyson, it signals time to put down your weapons and take a breather for a few days. Do we all feel this? If so, why?
What if you were able to pinpoint a few individuals in your life, individuals who handed you the joy of Fridays on a plate? What would you say to them? Me? I would simply say Thanks.
But, a simple ‘thanks’ would be an injustice to those who granted me these fine feelings. Can you imagine if Osama Bin Laden suddenly sat up one day, and said ‘Oh, 9/11 you ask? Yeah – Sorry about that’. Or, if Captain Edward J Smith had survived the sinking of the Titanic, can you imagine him saying ‘Oops – my bad! Won’t happen again though!!!’. The fact is, a few simple words are not enough – you need to explain yourself at times. You owe it to the people who have helped you, and the people you may have hurt. You owe it to yourself to say more, than simply ‘thanks’.
I would like to say Thanks to my teacher, Mrs Symmons of Broomhouse Primary. Back in 1984, I was just starting in Primary One. I was the youngest in class if I remember correctly, an early start – 4 years old at the time. I remember being late as Mum had slept in again. As I was ushered out the door, I started the 5 minute walk towards school and on route, I met my friend James. We arrived at the school perimeter gate to find it locked shut, so boys being boys, we decided to climb over. If you can imagine the gate for a second, large & heavy, covered in wet rust and cracked black paint. Tall flat headed spikes climbed skywards above me, and a diagonal metal strip ran top right to bottom left. I slowly climbed using the diagonal strip and vertical bars as foot wedges. As I attempted to manoeuvre myself up and over the gate, disaster struck. I managed to catch my trouser leg in one of the gate spikes, and lost my balance. I crashed towards the ground, and hit hard with a thump. My trousers ripped and a bloodied knee, I fought back tears but wanted to cry so badly. James managed it over safely, and we headed across the large concrete playground in the direction of our classroom door.
We entered the packed classroom and Mrs Symmons gave me a cold hard stare. ‘Back outside, and knock this time’. Silly old bitch. I closed the door and knocked. It felt like an eternity, and eventually she shouted COME IN. Two seats had been placed in front of the blackboard, which was in the classic “cinema screen” position. On my right was her creaky old desk, and in front of us, the entire class sat and looked at us, as if we were animals in a circus act. We were instructed to sit down on a chair each, which we immediately did with nervous looks on our faces.
Mrs Symmons was a lady of few words, she meant business and did not need to raise her voice to force good behaviour. One look from her and you knew to pull your socks up. A thin red headed lady, she often wore a long green skirt and cream coloured blouse with a huge brass coloured broach. She had a pointy nose, pointed and sharp glasses and looking back, I suspect a black cat, cauldron and broomstick hidden in the classroom cupboard.
As we sat in our chairs, Mrs Symmons paid no attention to us as she finished taking the classroom register. Afterwards she opened her top right drawer, and pulled out a wooden ruler. She approached James first, and simply said ‘your hand’. James knew what to do, and lifted his arm. I didn’t dare look, and besides, I was too busy fighting the urge to bubble. Everyone was watching, and crying was for wimps – time for me to be a big boy. After she had finished with James, she turned to me. ‘Hand please’. I lifted my arm, and before she did anything I could feel myself letting go and giving up. As the first of my tears rolled down my cheeks, and into my mouth, the ruler snapped hard on my knuckles. Perfect timing it would appear. 3 or 4 ruler slaps later, and the tears have been mixed with wet snot. I am gasping and panting as you do after a good cry, as I struggle to keep a lid on myself. Sitting balling your eyes out in front of all your peers was stupid, I just didn’t appreciate how stupid.
After she had finished ‘teaching us a lesson’, we were sent straight to the head masters room. Terrified, we hurried along the corridor with Mrs Symmons ranting and raving behind us, her high pitched and whining voice reminding us we were bad boys and deserved punishment. We arrived and are made to sit outside whilst the cow presumably discussed our disgusting behaviour and attitude with the top dog. After a minute or so, we were asked in, and Mrs Symmons went back to class.
‘Gary why were you late today? And what happened to your clothes?’ I don’t know why, but I panicked. Perhaps I was scared of another ruler being pulled out, or perhaps, and most likely, I was scared of going home and being blamed for ruining my clothes. ‘Sorry sir I was chased by bad boys and I had to climb the fence to get away and I fell’. You know, when you tell one lie, and if pushed, the only way to keep that lie safe, is to tell another? Vicious and nasty circle, I guess designed to stop us lying in the first place. The questions didn’t stop. ‘Who are the bad boys? Names? Where do they live? Do they go to this school?’ I explained how 7 of them chased me, into the playground –told me I was going to get battered I said. As for my escape? ‘I got inside the classroom, and they went inside another classroom sir’. That, was probably the biggest mistake I had ever made.
As the Head teacher marched me to the classroom my attackers had fled to, he opened the door and asked for silence. ‘Gary, point them out’. Standing in a room full of innocent children, most of whom I hadn’t seen before, I swallowed hard and started picking out 7 random faces, all boys. At that point, the seven were directed to the headmaster room, and I, back to class.
The next day, I got up on time, and headed to school well before the bell was due to signal the start of class. I found James in the playground as I did most mornings, but he had a new group of friends. He did not want to speak, told me to get lost – told me how he hated me and wasn’t my friend. What had I done? I wondered off on my own, no one to talk to, not sure what to do. As I walked aimlessly towards the Janitors hut, I was completely unaware that in 30 seconds time, school was about to become my own personal hell.
Grabbed from behind, one of the boys whom I had previously pointed out dragged me towards the hut, the rest of his class following, I am pinned against the wooden hut wall and he screams and shouts in my face, no idea what he is saying. It turns out I had singled out half of the Primary 7 boys, and a group of ****ed off 11 year olds was all I needed.
As I was pinned against the wall, helpless to even try and defend myself, the other lads started to take turns dishing out the punishment. I remember the spits, the punches, the hair pulling, and I remember as if it were yesterday. I remember the screams of laughter, the pointing and shouting, I remember the feeling of terror as I lay on the ground thinking it would never stop. I remember the kicks to the groin and the feeling of sick induced each and every time one of their legs made contact with my body. I remember the warning I was given as they turned and walked away, and it terrified me.
I somehow managed to last a year before being shipped half a mile up the road to St Josephs in time for Primary 2. One thing is certain though, wherever I go, and whomever I meet, Broomhouse is never far away.
Mrs Symmons, the Innocent Seven, and James. Thank you for giving me the gift of joy on a Friday. Most importantly though, I should thank myself. We all make choices, and some of them you will live with for an eternity.
Today, I feel joy.
Gary.