(Disclaimer: Some names have been changed to protect their privacy. Mature subject matter. Reader discretion is advised. 18+)
I was twelve years old back in 1986. I lived in a new place and was going to a new school in Kanata, Ontario. I had met a lovely girl named Sydney at this new school. She was the only person to befriend me. I hung around with Sydney for the remaining half of grade six and part of the summer before we had entered grade seven. We were the same age. We were two peas in a pod.
My parents had moved my brother Craig and I to Kanata mid way through my grade sixth year of school. I was relieved when we moved away from Christie Public School. I was bullied relentlessly there. That school was located near Ottawa. I met ‘Necklace man’ at that school’s playground. I thought maybe I could have a fresh start. No such luck.
I was considered a smart child in school. I enjoyed learning. I hated socializing and making friends. With that said, I quite often came home with all A’s, or A’s with one or two B’s. The grade reflected my level of respect for the teacher who had offered the class.
In grade six, I had a teacher named Mr. Beale. He was an awesome teacher. He was fair and firm. I could respect him. Mr. Beale commanded respect in his classroom. Rather than demand respect in a classroom through a sense of entitlement. Mr. Beale showed he believed in his students and in what he was doing. I think Mr. Beale is an excellent character for a motivational movie about teachers who make a positive difference. His character back then, in my eyes, would have fit a role like that perfectly. I am grateful I had Mr. Beale for my teacher. He saved my spirit one day.
Mr. Beale asked me if I would be willing to tutor a student named Vincent for some time. Vincent had recently moved to the area from Yellowknife. This province is situated in the Northwest Territories, Canada. I started working with Vincent approximately two months prior to my move to Kanata. Vincent’s nationality is Inuit, I believe?
From what I understand, in the area where Vincent grew up, up until that point, english was not a language he was exposed to. Vincent had to learn from the very beginning.
Vincent needed a bit of help in both reading and writing of the english language. With my grades being what they were, I was the perfect candidate to help. I had a habit of finishing my in school class work long before the other students on a fairly regular basis. When I was finished, I usually sat at my desk and read quietly to myself. I often waited for all the other students to finish.
Mr. Beale had observed this about me, so he had asked me if I would tutor Vincent. I said yes, of course. Vincent and I sat in a designated area near the back of the classroom each afternoon. We would work on his exercise sheets, as well as other topics being discussed in class that day. The other kids became somewhat jealous, to put it lightly.
Vincent was a strapping young man. He towered over me by a good four or five inches. He had tanned skin with beautiful brown eyes and thick, wavy, jet black hair. I was on the shorter side in comparison to some of the other female students in my class. Usually with pants on or shorts on, with a t-shirt, long blonde hair in a ponytail, and a baseball cap on my head when outside. I was a proverbial tomboy. Vincent was also two years older than me. He was placed into grade six so he could get caught up to the level of students at his own age. We had gotten along extremely well.
Vincent walked me halfway home from school each day. He acted as a bodyguard for me. He may not have understood english too well. Vincent could read body language and other energy between people like a hawk can narrow in on its prey. I felt safe with Vincent to the point that a part of me felt invincible as long as I was with him.
Vincent and I would break off at an intersection closest to the school, after we had crossed it to get to the other side of the residential road. Once Vincent and I had reached the other side of the crosswalk, Vincent would walk up the same street. I made a right turn, crossed another crosswalk, and then kept in that direction home.
On one particular day, four girls picked on me. Alexis, the leader of the mean girls, was ruthless.
“You fucking teacher’s pet! Why don’t you go kiss his ass! You fucking loser!”
Then Alexis would chant.
“Vincent and Clair sitting in a tree k.i.s.s.i.n.g. First comes love. Then comes marriage. Then comes a baby in a baby carriage. You are such a slut!”
Alexis went back and forth between singing the kissing song and throwing a profanity my way. The other girls, Kathy, Helen, and Tanya, were all cackling and laughing along.
Tanya took it a bit too far. She said “if I were you, I’d go kill myself. You loser!”.
As soon as Vincent heard those words come out of Tanya’s mouth, he went to take a swing at her. His white knuckled fist was headed straight for her nose. The moment I had seen Vincent’s arm raised, I grabbed for it and yelled, “Vincent don’t! It’s not worth it!”.
I yanked Vincent’s arm down towards me. He relinquished his threat towards Tanya, then turned to look at me. He was livid. He also had sad eyes for me. Vincent didn’t speak a word. I looked at him and said “I’m okay Vincent. It’s okay. They are not worth it. Go home Vincent. I’m going home too.”
I made different hand gestures by pointing my fingers in the different directions, to better help Vincent understand what it was I was saying to him. As I was talking to Vincent, the girls took off. When I walked away from Vincent, I looked back after about two minutes or so. Vincent didn’t walk up the hill like he normally would have. He stood at the corner of that intersection. Watching to make certain the three girls, Kathy, Helen, and Tanya, who were walking a few feet in front of me, were not going to hurt me again. Once the girls were out of sight, Vincent was gone.
I didn’t see Vincent again after that day. I moved before he returned to school. The next day, with Vincent not being at school, it became prime time for the bullies to get back at me for the altercation we had the day before at the intersection.
During lunch recess, my entire grade six class, with exception of one quiet student who was named Sean Barns, decided to surround me whilst I was on the playground. They formed a large circle with me in the middle.
“Not so brave now that your bodyguard is gone, are ya? You freak!” Along with other not so nice words which exploded out of Alexis’s mouth.
All the other kids egged Alexis on. “Fight! Fight! Fight!” They all chanted.
Next thing I knew, I was being tossed back and forth like a ragdoll towards one student and then another. Each time I was pushed, the student who they pushed me into, kicked me, or punched me, before tossing me to the next student to repeat the beating.
I was ganged up on by my entire grade six class. Both boys and girls had a field day. They used me as a punching bag. I couldn’t hit back nor could I defend myself, because I could hardly keep myself from falling over. I was pushed so aggressively and frequently that my head started to spin.
I had experienced a ton of emotions that day. When the recess teacher came over to break up the fight, I was lost inside myself.
“What are you all doing?! Stop this! Right now!”, the teacher yelled. She then swatted the kids away from me.
As the teacher waved all the students away, she came over to me and asked, “do you want to go inside? You are welcome to if you wish?”
I took her up on her offer. I went inside and hid in the bathroom stall until the bell rang.
Mr. Beale came over to me after the afternoon recess, to chastise me for not telling him what the other students had done during lunch break. I guess the lunch recess teacher had explained to him what had happened whilst I was crying in the bathroom stall? I am honestly not sure about this.
“Why didn’t you tell me they did that to you? You should have come to me or gone to the office. You should have told us you were being bullied.”
I don’t blame Mr. Beale for being upset with me for not telling him. I think his intuition had told him that I was being bullied for tutoring Vincent at his request. Mr. Beale likely felt somewhat responsible for my defeat.
After the school beating, I kept quiet about it just like I went quiet when the man with the necklace had attacked me. I did schoolwork, and remained neutral in my body language. Inside, I was numb. I had gone about the rest of my day like nothing had happened. All the while, screaming underneath the numbness, deep within my mind, “why doesn’t anyone like me?! Why am I not loveable? Why am I an It!?”
Those questions are similar to the questions I had asked myself whilst walking on that March wintery night during my lock out at Rosie’s. Almost forty years later, I wondered why I wasn’t loved by others, or might it be better to say “why didn’t I love myself?” A forty year old woman who carried a tortured child inside. Who knew? Jack and Clairity knew. I was oblivious for the longest time.
I stayed home the next day from school after that beating. I can’t remember if I played sick or if I was allowed to stay home. The next day, which was the last day of school for me before the big move to Kanata, Mr. Beale planned a surprise going away party for me.
During lunch hour Mr. Beale decorated the entire classroom with balloons, party supplies, and cake. Then he had all the kids come back inside the school moments before the bell rang. I went in when the bell rang not being any the wiser. When I walked into the classroom Mr. Beale and all the students yelled “surprise!”.
Mr. Beale had ended regular scheduled class for the rest of the afternoon. Instead, we listened to music on a boom box one of the other students brought to school. I heard some apologies from some of the students, and Mr. Beale read my three page poem about friendship. Mr. Beale made me feel seen, valued, appreciated, and loved. He is one of my secret heros to this day. Mr. Beale turned a very painful experience into love.
I left Christie Public School with mixed emotions. Both pain and pleasure. Depending on which memory I chose to focus on. That surprise party experience Mr. Beale he had so lovingly given me, became a beautiful core memory which I truly value to this day. The students who had bullied me and the “should of, could of, would of” from Mr. Beale was a wee bit harder to digest. All in due time.
My experiences at Christie Public Elementary school had helped me to come to terms with the fact that I have no control perceived views of me. I only have control over my own perception. Knowing this truth allows my mind to soften to the rest of my memories when it comes to that school.
No matter what you do, there will always be someone who will agree with you and there will always be others who will disagree with you. There will be those who like you for simply breathing, and there will be others who despise you for simply breathing. As long as you can recognize your own intentions, and your intentions are pure, keep doing you. Everyone else will be okay, eventually. This includes your family. Especially the one you were born into.
I cherished my friendship with Sydney. She accepted me. The other kids at the new school coined me ‘Agnus’ because I didn’t speak much, and I wore clothes from England which were different from Canadian apparel.
I valued my friendship with Sydney so much that I decided not to tell her what her father had done to me on one fateful camping trip. At least not until about two years later, when we were in grade nine science class together. I was seated right in front of her. Her sitting there behind me had triggered me so, I had an overwhelming impulse to tell her. I couldn’t ignore it. I told her the truth.
I turned around in my seat, when no one else was in the classroom with us, and finally caved. Sydney’s response to me was “I suspect my dad did that to my sister’s friends too.”
Sydney and I never spoke of it again after that. My heart sank for her. I was also angry at the idea of her knowing what her father could be like and she still invited me to be alone with him. I stopped talking to Sydney after her father’s attack on my innocence that traumatic weekend. After I had told her what her father did, I stopped talking with Sydney all over again. I kept my pain in silence.
This is the truth about Sydney and I. You reading this now, are the next to know what had truly happened on that awful camp weekend between me, Sydney, and Sydney’s dad.
It was a Wednesday when Sydney asked me if I would like to go with her and her family to their campsite.
“Wanna come to our camp this weekend? We have a camper with bunk beds and everything. We can go swimming and have a campfire with s’mores.”
It sounded awesome to me.
“Yeah! I’ll ask my parents and let you know.”
That night I asked my parents. After their due diligence of asking with whom, where, and when, they allowed me to go. They felt I would be safe enough with both Sydney’s parents in attendance. I did too. We were all wrong.
Friday came. I was excited. I had been looking forward to going from the moment Sydney mentioned it to me. I thought about us going hiking on the trails. I thought about the water sports Sydney said we would do. I also relished in the idea of being away from my parents and brother for a few days. I walked to Sydney’s house about ten minutes from my own with a bag in hand and a wide excited grin. When I had approached Sydney’s driveway, her father was there loading their station wagon with all their weekend gear. Sydney was inside the house.
“Hi Clair. Go on inside. Syd’s just getting her stuff together”, Mr. Steinfelt said, in a welcome happy-go-lucky voice. He then asked for my bag and placed it into the trunk of the car.
I went inside Syd’s house as Sydney’s dad had suggested. When I reached Syd’s room, she was picking up her packed duffle bag off of her bed.
“Hey Clair. It’s just gonna be me, you, and my Dad this weekend. My mom and sister both have to work.”
I had an instant flutter in my stomach the moment she told me that. I had a quick thought of “don’t go. Turn around and go back home. This could be bad.”
I chose to ignore my thoughts. I shrugged the inner knowing as paranoia because men scared me. Her dad was always nice to me up until that point and he kept his distance. Sydney and I had been hanging out for a good few months by then. It was the summer before we entered grade seven. I figured since he was a dad, I was safe. I was wrong.
After a day of water sports and campfire cooking with hotdogs and s’mores, we all went inside the camper to play cards before bedtime. Sydney’s dad had offered both Sydney and I a glass of wine as well.
“Treat this like a vacation away from responsibility. Have fun. No one will know. I’ve got your back”.
My curiosity about alcohol in that moment got the better of me. I chose to drink the wine whilst Sydney’s father waited patiently for the right moment to pounce.
LivWithClairity 