Monday, November 14, 2022

Childhood Memory 4

To repeat a consistent message of this series of childhood memories: we should hold on to them before they fleet, because they offer us insight into earlier versions of ourselves, before the many augmenting masks of age have developed over our nascent form. For as these layers calcify, for reasons better or worse, they cloak that initial trajectory, such that after mask upon mask of development, we lose sight of our origin, and in doing so forget part of ourselves. In doing so we forget ourselves. When we don't record we have no reference, and while all recall of memory is a reworking, to formalise it is to resist the erasure that is so often the temptation of our unconscious instincts. So perhaps, if trauma allows, we should be careful not to scrub our childhood memories to the point of sanitizing them beyond recognition, let alone sweep them under the rug like unwanted dust. They tell us something about ourselves: our fears and insecurities, our deeper impulses and desires, and this is useful information if we are to learn about ourselves, to know ourselves, to be ourselves, as per the advice of the delphic existentialists.

Like the time Mrs Rose* the cover teacher filled in for Mrs Pedone in Year 2 (thus placing the class within the range of 6-7 years old). She opened a book to read from a selection of stories we had been working through and was going through the titles one by one. At each, the children would chorus some kind of disappointment, having already heard the story. The class was getting very noisy and i was getting very bored. Mrs Rose questioned the class about another of the stories and in my boredom I volunteered at high volume "WE'VE HAD THAT ONE AND WE DIDN'T LIKE IT!" I remember scrunching up my eyes as I said it. I must have said it very loudly indeed because there was an immediate lull in the room as it became apparent some transgression had occurred. The obligatory "ommm...", worked it's way like a fire around the room: like a prepubescent incantation. Mrs Rose, for the most part a lovely old lady - switched - and became authoritative, keen to weed out this outburst and restore order to the class. "Who said that!?" She demanded. At once the entire room of 20-30 kids, all cross legged and jam-packed on the bobbly red carpet with me in the centre, swung their arms in my direction, their accusing, precise, and unequivocal fingers outstretched, forming a crop-circle of little limbs, all pointing in at me as its epicentre. In a pathetic and desperate attempt to defer blame onto someone other than myself, I had stuck my lone finger out at the kid next to me: one lone voice in a sea of accusation. My face went red. I don't think I even brought myself to make eye contact with Mrs Rose. I honestly had not meant her any personal affront, but I had got impatient with the whole scenario. Someone had to say something and cut through the natter and murmuring and indecision, and now that had backfired dramatically.

I have returned to this moment of my life more than any other and i still burn with embarrassment when i think of it. Why so? I realised the other day, that this represents my biggest fears: to be found out, to be shunned, to be made an outsider, to have made a fool of myself in front of everyone and be rejected by all, to lose the respect of my peers.

*Yet another time we had Mrs Rose cover a class, a boy whose name escapes me, answered the register with "Yes, Mrs Rosebush!", provoking a similar reaction, although fingers weren't necessary in rooting out the culprit on that occasion, as he had boldly/stupidly put his opinion directly to his name. Despite the ensuing scolding, i remember being impressed by the word-play and endearing myself to this otherwise distant student.

No comments:

Post a Comment