The real world and I were just about to start a lifelong relationship
By Susan Mason
I was 11 years old and all of a flutter. It was early February in 1964 and the new school year had just started at East Kempsey Primary School on the mid-north coast of New South Wales.
Finally I was one of the “big kids”, the eldest grade in the school. Our new teacher for the year was wonderful Mr Chisholm, a colourful character whose best long-division lessons were the ones that dissolved into a spirited rendition of “The Man from Snowy River” or “Clancy of the Overflow”.
But today Mr Chisholm was talking about the process of selecting school captains and vice-captains. A buzz went through the classroom. We were going to start with the nominations; those nominated would speak at the next school assembly, then the whole school would vote for their choice of captains.
Firstly, Mr Chisholm called for the girl nominations, and names started going up on the old, dusty blackboard. I had spent seven years with most of the young people in this class. Friends nominated friends, Mr Chisholm would call for a seconder and up would go an eager little hand to say, “Yes, I’ll second Jane,” and, “Yes, I’ll nominate Lizzy…”
But, slowly, my smile began to fade. My heart began to sink. Mr Chisholm was coming to the end of the process, and just about all the girls’ names in the class were up on the blackboard – except mine.
Girls can be particularly cunning and subtle in aiming their poisonous barbs. There was not so much as a nod or a wink or a nudge between them, but their air of pleasure at my discomfort was almost palpable in the classroom.
I was completely unaware at the time that I was considered pretty and clever, but now with hindsight I realise that these nasty little girls were intent on making me pay. One smart lad quickly worked out what was going on. He turned around and smirked at me. “Ha! They’ve got you this time, Mason!” I should have poked his eyes out there and then.
I walked home that afternoon on automatic pilot. The hurt and sense of betrayal overwhelmed me. These were the people I’d thought were my friends for the past seven years. My throat was parched, there was a knot in the pit of my stomach and my head pounded with confusion – feelings that I had never experienced before.
Of course, there was no way I could talk about it with my family. Those were the days of the stiff upper lip. Coupled with this, or so I thought, our family had a reputation to keep. My older brother had been school captain; my older sister, vice-captain.
My stomach convulsed at the thought of the next day. I could never convince my mother – as pliable as stone – that I was physically sick when I wasn’t. And how on earth could I begin to tell her I was sick in the heart?
I dragged myself to school, and sat in class with dread.
Finally, it was time to get on with the selection process and Mr Chisholm handed around a sheet of paper with those nominated for school captain. I looked at the sheet, and I looked again. My name was on the list!
He was saying something on the nominees preparing a speech for next Monday’s assembly about all the good works they intended to do for the school, but I was not really hearing.
How had my name got on that list? I immediately wondered if Mr Chisholm had intervened somehow. But that turned out not to be the case.
Walking home that afternoon, I was chatting, as I did from time to time, with Margaret – though not terribly enthusiastically, I’m afraid to say. Margaret, whom I had never classified as a friend, was in the “other” Year 6 class. I have no idea on what grounds the two classes were organised, but one seemed to be reserved for Aboriginals and poor whites, those who were economically and socially disadvantaged and already, it would seem, discarded by the rest of us.
At hockey games on Saturday mornings, I sometimes sat with Maisy and Daisy in the clover, and we chatted and giggled and made daisy chains together. Maisy and Daisy were Aboriginals from the other class. I had little to do with its members otherwise, and it was only occasionally that I walked part of the way home with Margaret.
Margaret, a “poor white”, looked somewhat untidy, smelt just a little less than fresh and lived in a less than salubrious part of town. And it was she who had thought of me and had nominated me for school captain. The real world and I were just about to start a lifelong relationship.
Next Monday came and again I was excited. I had my speech ready. At the assembly, poor Stephanie broke down completely in tears and couldn’t go on with her speech. Jane got all muddled up and had to start again. Others were similarly very nervous.
For some reason, I was able to get up to speak in front of the entire school of around 300 youngsters – and feel good! I was well prepared, I spoke clearly and actually started to enjoy myself. And the school voted me in as school captain.
My God, didn’t those horrible little girls just love me after that! Soon after, they were beating a path to my door to get invited to my 12th birthday party.
At the time, I found all this inordinately confusing.
It was a hard lesson, but I started to learn, very slowly, that true friends are very scarce, and certainly know no social boundaries. Margaret probably needed a friend even more desperately than I did. So, belatedly, I’m writing this story 40 years later to say thank you, Margaret, for the break that I should have given you.
Susan Mason is a former teacher who lives in Armidale, on the Northern Tablelands of NSW, with her two teenage sons. She teaches aqua-aerobics and enjoys writing in her free time. |
