Live Long And Connect The Dots

I wakened this morning with a memory.It was a writing class in Third Grade. We had small white ceramic  inkwells in our desks. They were filled from a huge bottle with  two  curved metal tubes,one shorter than the other,  at the end. Pens had holes shaped for the thumb and first finger. There was fear in the classroom.

Sister Alphonsus, school principal, taught writing to Grades Two and Three. She was  elderly,thin and wrinkled and Irish. Her threats were legend. "A Good Ear Wigging" was a favourite. I'm not sure I ever saw anyone suffer that particular punishment. But a wrap on the skull with a pair of knuckles was regularly delivered.

Of course, there was always also the leather strap.

I was seven years old , a year younger than the average classmate  because of  date of birth.Failure to "pass"  meant a student had to repeat a grade. There were students ,two years or more older than myself in the class.

I dreaded writing class. I  always managed to get ink on my fingers and smudge the page or blot the letters.I would be in sheer misery as Sister went up and down the aisles checking each pupil's work.

On this morning, she  stopped at my side. I kept my head down and held my breath. She commented my  letters were nice and round. It was not what I expected.

When she had passed and was far enough down the aisle ,Bridget Mc Ivor, a girl on the opposite side of the aisle said "She didn't say that to you" Desks were for two pupils. Patsy Smith ,the girl on her other side echoed the comment.

They had both been held back from the previous year. They would have been nine years old. At seven I was not inclined to dispute what they said.

I often wonder what  makes a  memory stark and clear. I remember where we sat , the location of the windows. my fear as the teacher approached. I hardly had time to realize  I had been given  credit before  it was snatched away.

It wasn't an unusual experience in my life. I was youngest of four in my family. I may not have had a clear understanding of  my lesser  status.

 I do not seek to fight. But if someone decides they want to, I'm not inclined to back away.

Somewhere along the way, I may  have learned a person spoiling for a fight, isn't satisfied until they get it.

At the same time, as life continues, a pattern  emerges , I have had to conclude there's  something about me that obtains that reaction.

There's also a pattern of people who feel the need to withhold credit or discredit or qualify,whatever I have to say.

I do not aspire to win medals or awards or  compete for popularity.  Nobody gets that without trying.  I don't.

I just believe  my point of view has equal value in a civilized society and I offer to represent people of like mind.

Why    are there  always people who feel compelled to belittle others.  They do not choose to argue a point. They simply dismiss it.

I believe I know  but also that it  matters little.

No more than it mattered all those  years ago  when two nine year olds, who were struggling and failing felt compelled to take  something that was no use to them, from a seven year old, to sustain their own egos in a harsh environment.

Patsy Smith became ill and died  of meningitis  within days ,when she was fifteen years old. She had already been out of school a year and working when  her young life ended. 

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