Whoa, some schools impact you for life.
Home base in childhood; for me at least. Unlike a lot of my friends. I had the safety and comfort of elementary school usually for a few months at a time. I believe I spent one and half or two years at Simcoe Street school and a whole year at Greendale. I know my parents managed to have me enrolled for a whole 3 days at Helix...before deciding to pass me back to Centennial in Hamilton.
Just a few of the many, many moves with new teachers, friends and rules. Yet, I loved school. It was the best place I could be from age 4-17. It didn't matter to me if I was in French school like I was in pre-K, Catholic school where I spent half those years, or the various public schools of the Golden Horseshoe: each one welcomed me, brought me structure, hope and oh yes, education too.
Saint Annes though was a different sort of bird. I landed there sometime in grade five due to a move with Mum and the sister she was living with: for a few winter months in the middle of the school year of 1979-1980.
Just a few months, but wow, unforgettable. A whole different world even to all the other catholic schools I had breezed in and out of over the past 7 years. Mandatory 1/4 rosary in the morning, quick and instant detention, even the schoolyard (huge as it seemed to be) had a subdued and reverent feel. Mandatory Mass on the weekend where attendance was taken by an Altar Boy: if he wasn’t busy bragging about peeing in the Holy Water font or sneaking sips of Communion Wine in the vestry.
My tentative friends admonished me for the slightest infraction: don't say a cross word, keep the volleyball on this side of the door, wear your hat or Look out, you will end up writing Time!
Ah, writing time! The ultimate punishment, save the strap, that filled us with fear. Now, don’t be alarmed if you have no idea what I am on about: writing Time was about as alien to me at ten as it likely is to you. I soon found out though.
At St. Anne’s if your teacher thought you wasted her time: you were handed several sheets of foolscap and the Dictionary . You were instructed to turn to the word Time. Depending on the severity of your infraction you were instructed to copy by hand the dictionary definition of the word time onto those endless blank reams of paper.
Did you ask a dumb question? Write the definition once.
Were you whispering to your friends in class? Five times.
Were you truly being disrespectful or disruptive? 10 times.
No one dared step out of line really. Your hand would cramp instantly at the thought of being naughty. Also, naughty as defined by the Nuns is a very different gauge of what is and isn’t acceptable.
I have never experienced a group of children so completely cowed and cowering before or since.
I didn’t have the confidence then to express how badly I would have liked to return to my former Public School, Centennial. Situated in a grubby area of Hamilton just across town next to another school called Bennetto lay a beautiful oasis for child development. Mr Russ’s classroom felt like a slice of pie, with whipped cream served daily in your favourite flavour.
He brought in parachutes for us, held contests where the winner got McDonald’s,and specially ordered science kits that arrived in giant wooden crates. Excitement at the sight of a wooden crate was instant- something great is happening today! My core memory was the develop-your -own -film science kit.
A bunch of cheap cameras. A trip to the park by my house. A gorgeous fall day where it still feels like summer. I’d been there lots but this day was special. “Take pictures of whatever you want guys! The bay, the birds, your friends or a blade of grass. It’s up to you.”
Cut to our classroom the next day- weird black plastic bags that fit over our arms: the cameras placed into them from the other side and zipped in along with a circular container. We were instructed to carefully remove the film from our camera, place it in the container and close the lid.
The containers, which were similar to a short soup thermos, were then removed. They had a small spout with a cap. Our next step as ten year old scientists was to add some foul smelling chemicals to that spout. Thermoses lined up on the back counter by the class Guinea pig and it was time for lunch and tetherball.
We returned a truly noisy bunch to a classroom with a new blue clothesline. At some point, after the required time elapsed we were allowed to carefully open those film canisters and hang up our precious strip of negatives.
On day three we were given a few sheets of photo paper. Told to place our negative on a paper, given a strange contraption with a light bulb. We sat our masterpieces under our individual lights and waited hopefully.
Like magic, images of our friends, the water, the sky appeared in lovely sepia colour. I had those 3 little photos for years until one move or another disappeared them.
Yes, it was an awful neighbourhood. Yes I was confronted at that tender age with fistfights and threats and a random dude at that same park on another day who was bigger, stronger and sucker punched me because he felt like it. It was 1979.
However, that was a tiny price to pay to be part of Mr. Russ’s world. 🌎. I wonder often what happened to him? I hope that his career and life were fantastic. He deserved to win the lottery and be given a Harley and a kitten just for the half year that I spent in his class. I cannot imagine how many others feel exactly the same.
It’s been over 45 years. I can’t forget how valued I felt in that classroom and how free.
In my weird and varied educational experience I have known some amazing teachers: Mr Russ, Mr. Dodson, Mr Mavor Mz Vukobratic Mr Schoenfeld: that’s just five of many! I have known quite awful ones who’s names are lost on me now and who’s memory I have probably blocked for good reason.
In my adult life I know so many teachers: really super good ones. Some retired, but with stellar histories of caring for kids. Teaching, encouraging and inspiring.
For those who are still out there fighting the good fight everyday- I see you. I thank you. I hope someday that 45 years from now a sentimental grown child remembers you.
