“Mathew, what’s 6x2?”
“12, ma’am.”
“Julie, 6x5?”
“30, ma’am.”
“Christopher, 6x6?”
“Um…um…”
My teacher got up from her chair, went over to where I was sitting and slapped me hard across the face.
She accused me of not doing my homework and told me to go home and practise the six times table until I knew it by heart.
“I’ll test you in front of the class again. And you better get it right next time,” she said.
I bit the bottom of my lip and struggled hard to hold back my tears. I felt the other kids staring at me.
Singling students out to test them in reading, writing, and calculation was a daily occurrence at Greenside Primary.
“Christopher, come to the blackboard and correct this sentence,” the teacher would say.
I would stand there, not knowing what to do, while my eyes started to tear up. Eventually, the teacher would wave me away.
“Sarah, could you please show the others why this sentence is wrong?”
By Sunday evening, I was already dreading Monday. I had dyslexia and always felt a step behind everyone else. Often in class, I would stare at my piece of paper, not knowing what to do, while everyone around me was completing the exercise. I tried to hold back my tears, but they would eventually come.
Outside the classroom, I was a different child.
Having two older brothers, I knew how to fight. Even against boys two or three years older than me, I would fight back. I might end up on the ground, bruised and scared, but they rarely walked away unhurt either. Being known as a good fighter probably protected me from being teased.
When fights broke out on the playground, all the kids used to gather round, chanting “Barney! Barney! Barney!”
If you were involved, walking away was hard. Other kids surrounded you and would shove you back in.
Thinking about it now, I wonder how much of the violence between us came from the world around us. We were taught not only to respect adults, but often to fear them. Teachers hitting children wasn’t unusual. A slap, a ruler across the hand or a trip to the headmaster for the cane were accepted forms of discipline. We were expected to take it.
Every Monday morning, we gathered for assembly. We stood in rows while the headmaster addressed the school. We weren’t allowed to talk or move around. We were expected to stand quietly and listen.
One morning, I noticed a boy nearby whispering to his friend. The deputy headmistress spotted him too and calmly walked towards him. I had a feeling something was about to happen.
She slapped him.
He punched her in the face, knocking her to the ground. For a few seconds, nobody moved.
One teacher signalled to the male teachers to catch him. The boy sprinted across the school field, jumped over the fence and disappeared.
Five hundred kids threw their arms into the air and roared.
The next day, the school administration pretended as if nothing had happened. We never saw that boy again.