Few recent conversations brought me back to my good old school days in a huge grey 2-floors building in a less metropolitan city far to the west.
No school buses - we all had to walk to school or take regular local buses or a tram. There was no auditorium or amphitheater - all the assemblies (if any took place) were held in our PE room that was of a size of basketball field.
I hated school. Somehow from the very beginning my mind wanted to be outside the system rather than inside, and thus few months of homeschooling that happened to me in my earliest teens were the best times of my school education and I cherish those memories till now.
My dissatisfaction with the school system began at an early age of 3 when my parents decided to send me to the kindergarden,,,,, Oh.... the famous cries and shouting in my street as I was dragged to the hated institution that is supposed to ignite the fire of knowledge in little humans..... Somehow it made me scream for the heating system to be on as I felt cold inside the grey walls. The only respite from that was the fact that we would sometimes meet a man with a monkey on his shoulder on our way. You see... Having an elder brother who often felt bored or had to take tuitions and a fairy-tale of a grandmother left a 3-year-old familiar with letters of alphabet (thanks to grandmother) and some of the french phrases (thanks to brother's lessons that did not improve his knowledge of French though). It also led to my first educational disappointment and breakdown of value system, when as a 6 year old I was told that the word 'MOCKBA,' that was printed on the cover of my brother's book, was actually a Russian word and thus I was not able to read it properly and a word mockba does not exist in my language. Can you imagine the tears of disappointment in the eyes of a 6 year old? and anger at being so severely cheated by the world....
School also meant my mother having to take a meeting with my PE teacher in classes 1, 2, and 3 and literally beg her not to fail me... This tragedy would have continued till the end of my school days but in class 4 somebody.... a genius I suppose, decided that in winter our PE ground will be turned into a skating rink and thus my hidden talents as a leader and figure skating performer were revealed. Was it really so difficult for the teachers to discover earlier that the only thing I can run after is the bus, the only thing I can throw is a grenade of words and that group games make me feel crumpled in the crowd of anonymous bodies... but figure skating.... that was something.... sheer beauty.... and thus each day a member of my family was forced to accompany me to the rink.
There are also 2 academic incidents I remember from my primary school.
Our music teacher taught me an exercise that I often do with my own students in various forms. - We were in class 2 and she made us close our eyes, listen to a piece of music and then draw what we saw.
Being disortografic was an experience of another sort - I remember an essay in which I got 2 marks as the only person in my class - fail for spellings and excellent for contents.
High school did not leave much impression on me, but it left me with deep feeling of admiration for my mother... You see... once in class there was a book of poetry by Jim Morrison lying at my desk...
Let me give you a glimpse of Jim:
“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”
These were the things that he spoke of, but one of my teachers, not the favorite one of course, saw it and commented....'Oh, mister Morrison, at whose grave people copulate...' And so my peaceful ad dignified mother went to school, banged her fist against a table and told the teacher in question to copulate at his own house and leave her daughter alone...
But I also had a fantastic geometry teacher, who gave me a gift..... I was not the best student in geometry but at the end of the school year he called me by his side and said that I remind him of himself when he was my age, and he gave me a cassette of some of his favorite music - 'Iron Butterfly'...
No school buses - we all had to walk to school or take regular local buses or a tram. There was no auditorium or amphitheater - all the assemblies (if any took place) were held in our PE room that was of a size of basketball field.
I hated school. Somehow from the very beginning my mind wanted to be outside the system rather than inside, and thus few months of homeschooling that happened to me in my earliest teens were the best times of my school education and I cherish those memories till now.
My dissatisfaction with the school system began at an early age of 3 when my parents decided to send me to the kindergarden,,,,, Oh.... the famous cries and shouting in my street as I was dragged to the hated institution that is supposed to ignite the fire of knowledge in little humans..... Somehow it made me scream for the heating system to be on as I felt cold inside the grey walls. The only respite from that was the fact that we would sometimes meet a man with a monkey on his shoulder on our way. You see... Having an elder brother who often felt bored or had to take tuitions and a fairy-tale of a grandmother left a 3-year-old familiar with letters of alphabet (thanks to grandmother) and some of the french phrases (thanks to brother's lessons that did not improve his knowledge of French though). It also led to my first educational disappointment and breakdown of value system, when as a 6 year old I was told that the word 'MOCKBA,' that was printed on the cover of my brother's book, was actually a Russian word and thus I was not able to read it properly and a word mockba does not exist in my language. Can you imagine the tears of disappointment in the eyes of a 6 year old? and anger at being so severely cheated by the world....
School also meant my mother having to take a meeting with my PE teacher in classes 1, 2, and 3 and literally beg her not to fail me... This tragedy would have continued till the end of my school days but in class 4 somebody.... a genius I suppose, decided that in winter our PE ground will be turned into a skating rink and thus my hidden talents as a leader and figure skating performer were revealed. Was it really so difficult for the teachers to discover earlier that the only thing I can run after is the bus, the only thing I can throw is a grenade of words and that group games make me feel crumpled in the crowd of anonymous bodies... but figure skating.... that was something.... sheer beauty.... and thus each day a member of my family was forced to accompany me to the rink.
There are also 2 academic incidents I remember from my primary school.
Our music teacher taught me an exercise that I often do with my own students in various forms. - We were in class 2 and she made us close our eyes, listen to a piece of music and then draw what we saw.
Being disortografic was an experience of another sort - I remember an essay in which I got 2 marks as the only person in my class - fail for spellings and excellent for contents.
High school did not leave much impression on me, but it left me with deep feeling of admiration for my mother... You see... once in class there was a book of poetry by Jim Morrison lying at my desk...
Let me give you a glimpse of Jim:
“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”
These were the things that he spoke of, but one of my teachers, not the favorite one of course, saw it and commented....'Oh, mister Morrison, at whose grave people copulate...' And so my peaceful ad dignified mother went to school, banged her fist against a table and told the teacher in question to copulate at his own house and leave her daughter alone...
But I also had a fantastic geometry teacher, who gave me a gift..... I was not the best student in geometry but at the end of the school year he called me by his side and said that I remind him of himself when he was my age, and he gave me a cassette of some of his favorite music - 'Iron Butterfly'...
