{old enemies}

i think i must have been 10 or 11? we were asked to do a school project on winston churchill and i was excited. my dad was a history buff and he had a collection of books on and by mr churchill. so i couldn’t believe my luck: i literally had all the material i needed to excel, right at my fingertips!

i remember spending hours on this project. pouring over book after book, dictionary to hand, as the language seemed particularly foreign and difficult to understand. but i didn’t want to waste this opportunity. i didn’t want to lose this moment where i could shine. i wanted to show what i could achieve. what i am capable of.

then the day came and we were selected to read excerpts of our work in class. i stood up proudly when it came my turn and started sharing my hard work...

the rest is still a little bit of a blur.
but i don’t think i got far before the teacher shouted across the room, “stop!”
i was stunned. stopped in my tracks. there was silence in the classroom.
i turned towards her, confused.
“where did you get that information?” she asked suspiciously.
was that a trick question? i didn’t know what to say. i don’t even remember how i responded.
i know i started blushing. embarrassed as everyone was looking at me, but not in the way i had hoped or imagined.
“do you know the meaning of the word plagerism?”
i didn’t. and it didn't matter. i was curtly told to sit down and that was it.
there was no opportunity for me to defend myself. no time for me to explain that every word on that page was mine, woven together from hours of research.
that was it. that was my moment.
i felt choked. i wanted to cry. i wanted the proverbial ground to open up and take me away.

metaphorically speaking i don’t think i ever lifted my head up in class again.
i don’t think i ever made eye contact or volunteered my work. and even after mrs g moved on and i moved up, my report cards would always say, “she sits quietly in class and needs to contribute more.” but I never really found the courage to put myself out there after this. never wanted to share my work, for the fear of being ridiculed, or worst yet, accused of being a fraud. in fact this imposter syndrome has stayed with me for much of my life and, until these very moments typing on this page, i never really connected the two.

do teachers truly appreciate the power that they wield? although no experience has since scarred me to the same extent, the other memory that comes to mind is of another teacher...
the details are a little different, but the overall action was similar: public humiliation.
this particular incident was all to do with writing on the top line of the page.
i know, how inconsequential can it be?
but that was the bug bear and, as it was something i had been unused to, despite being asked more subtly on a few other occasions: so on this day it became a public flogging.
loudly ridiculed in front of the class for not being able to understand basic instructions, i was told to spend the rest of class writing “i will remember to write on the top line of the page” repeatedly in my exercise book. i hated her for that. and i remember hot tears burning in my eyes, as i scribbled those lines with anger, followed by humiliation, followed by embarrassment.
although I never did forget to write on the top line again...

funnily enough she ended up being one of my favourite teachers and as such i paid no real regard to our acrimonious beginnings. however now, looking back i can see how she dented my self confidence. and i think this experience paved the way for my allowing others to make me feel small without challenging them, because i believed they had my better interests. in a roundabout way i guess she gave the minor players, in this theatre of creative injuries, a stage to dance on.

so, can i make it a hat trick with the monster teachers’ hall of fame? I think i can!
ms a, my last art teacher.
initially i loved her. she had all the qualities of a great teacher: she was beautiful and softly spoken. she was encouraging and kind. she wore clothes that made her flow around the classroom, and her hair was always tousled and held together precariously in a wild and bohemian fashion that i associated with creative types (and still do – much to the chagrin of my own flat, thin and painfully straight hair)
i trusted her and she made me believe that i had the ability. the talent. the creativity...
and then she failed me.
i felt conned. duped. it was so unexpected. i was completely unprepared. and i didn’t understand.
that experience lived on and has often made me doubt myself and the words of encouragement others may say to me. how do i know they aren’t fooling me too? just like she did?

so these are the ghosts of my past: the teachers that moulded my future. and until today, i didn’t realise how intrinsically connected some of my current neuroses are linked to these events...

but probably the biggest enemy of them all. and the hardest to accept is...
my mother.
the one who is meant to be your greatest champion.
the harbour of safety, where you go to shield yourself from the storms, to be restored and protected...
not here!
if it isn’t to tell me i can’t do something, she would tell me how she could do it better.
and if, god forbid, she felt i did something better: then she would make me feel guilty by giving up herself: “what’s the point of me doing this, you already do it better.”
so now, if I am doing a joint activity with someone, or in a group and someone praises me, i am very quick to illustrate a flaw, or pass the compliment on to lady luck, or just reflect the compliment right back.
i just find it difficult to accept, own and most of all – believe – something good about my creativity. or that it doesn’t come with heavy conditions.

it is extraordinary sometimes to think about the long lasting impact something or someone can have on you. or the domino effect that a seemingly small incident can create. i wonder how many people actually think about the consequences of their words. particularly when dealing with something as fragile or delicate as someone’s creativity...

yet they seem smaller on the page now. the experiences more isolated.
the impact less catastrophic .
even my mother. she lives with us now (after being debilitated by 2 strokes) and, although she hasn’t really changed, having my husband as a neutral control helps me work through what is real and what is projected.
certainly i feel being older helps.
as an adult i feel more able to control what i choose to accept in my life and the people i surround myself with.
it has probably taken a little longer than i expected, and i am still learning about who i am and what i need; which i am sure will change and grow as i do: but i am lucky.
i feel i have a champion by my side who reminds me that i am a deserving person.
just looking at him, i know what is good. just being with him, i know what i need. and having him as my husband, gives me the courage to go out there: be brave, and find myself.