#30wordsin30days continued

Day 8 #childhoodmemories

The vision is short-lived, without too much detail. I am beside a fence, my back to the wall, literally as well as symbolically. 

The fence travels along a boundary, delineating the school playground from the neighbours’ property. It is wooden; a series of unpainted planks standing sentry. It is smooth. You cannot climb it to look over. I am too small to scale it, even if the thought had occurred to me. I am about midway along the fence route, not quite centre but not near either end.

There is a divide; back to the wall or looking towards it. I cannot recall if there is anyone beside me, or behind me – no one had my back – but there are people, children - for this is after all a primary school memory - in front of me. They are on the other side of the divide. All of them look at me. At the fore is Suzanne. Sometimes she is my best friend. I have more memories when she is not. This is one of them.

Are we fighting? I think so. Not physically. Not pull hair, scratch–scream-cry fighting. I cannot hear her words but she is angry; frowning and shouting at me, her words angled up by her chin, thrusting at me. Those around her reinforce her position of superiority. Their presence acquiesce to her status of rightness.

Do I argue back? I do not recall. I vaguely remember crying, although that may have been after, after the shock and my courage spent. I cannot be sure. Perhaps I was crying inside, while outside I watch her berate me. The feelings are stronger than the words. They reside with the event, returning to taunt me, to remind me of my worthlessness. Me against her, well it was her against me actually. I am the object of her scorn and rage. Everyone present agrees to this. They are with her. Was this my moment of realisation that I do not fit in? Was this realised or was I told? I was not part of the pack, back against the wall, I was different. I was belittled and excluded.

The moment is a gatekeeper. I question its significance, wondering why I have retained it at the cost of other memories, more gratifying ones. Another memory rallies. Suzanne came to my house. I had been home sick and she, with a group of girls, came to visit. Knocked on the front door to see how I was. One girl, having stepped on the flowerbed and gathered soil in the imprint of her shoe, stepped purposely into our hallway, grinding the dirt into the carpet before retreating and leaving a tell-tale mark. Was this some sort of passive-aggressive attack, or childish intention to sully one of my mother’s rules of a shoes-off policy?

And another: Suzanne rallied our netball team members to exclude me from some training activities. Have you ever played a game where no one throws you the ball? Only one girl defied her and stayed friendly. To my great shame, when she was bullied I did not return the favour. I did not risk being alienated from the safety of the pack.

Interwoven through these memories I hear various versions of my mother’s comments: you are too bossy, you need to be quiet; you are too loud; you don’t always have to get your own way; it’s not always about you. 

Perhaps Suzanne and my mum conspired to save me from myself – a loud assertive child, direct, perhaps rude. I don’t think I have changed all that much. These lessons of humility don’t seem to have had the desired effect. The impact however, has laced these traits with self-contempt and lack of self-worth. The child cries within.