Curious Pam: Our dark secret

Curious Pam: Our dark secret: Juxtaposition. Once you teach your English class that word, they want to use it to impress you. Sometimes they do, other times, well.....

Our dark secret

Juxtaposition. Once you teach your English class that word, they want to use it to impress you. Sometimes they do, other times, well...

So when you looked at the photo, you probably wondered what the hell connected a coffee mug and a shower lily from The Body Shop.

A seventeen year old girl, a Year 12 English student, a lovely young woman. They are all Hannah. And today they all connected in a moment of serendipity (another word that the girls loved to learn; did you notice that 'serenity' is buried inside it?)

Hannah is now a lovely young woman, a journalism graduate who loves to write. Shortly she will move to Melbourne to join her partner and to explore the greater opportunities for writing that the city offers. In the meantime, she has given up her boring writing day job and works in The Body Shop. And what a joy it was to walk in this morning and see her, reconnect with her, and to discover our joint obsession: true crime podcasts and books.

But first the mug. Hannah gave me this mug in her last days as a Year 12 student. Mugs are popular choices for teacher presents. Students know that we never actually finish a cup of tea or coffee at work but they know that some of us never sit down to a pile of marking without a hot drink. Or an alcoholic one. It depends on how well the marking is going. (I know of a teacher who used to return work that often bore the tell tale ring from a glass of red wine. And then there was the one who would hand back papers to students and showers of cigarette ash would flutter from the pages. You choose your own poison.)

I love this mug. It holds a lot of tea and is in high rotation, often being rescued from the dirty load in the dishwasher and forced back into service. These days when I no longer teach, it's my favourite mug for the first cuppa of the day.

So this is the Hannah mug. It lives in the cupboard beside the Katie mug, the Yvonne mug, the Cecily mug (now that was a surprise!), the Alison mug, the Issy mug- I could go on. Most of these are years old, but I have never forgotten the giver. When we had a cull before we moved to our apartment at the start of the year, all of the student mugs survived. Call me sentimental, but there is joy to be found in handling them, remembering, and wondering where the girls are and what they are doing now. Sometimes I know, but mostly I don't, and I think the girls would be surprised to know how much I treasure them.

The Hannah mug is a reminder of a bright, enthusiastic girl who stimulated conversations (authorised ones!) in that poky little room in the undercroft. Who always arrived at class with a smile on her face and a happy greeting, regardless of how much pressure she was under, and trust me, the pressure on Year 12 students was relentless when I was last teaching. I'm guessing that things haven't changed.

Grown up Hannah is a bright, enthusiastic young woman who meets me on equal terms, and today we discovered that we shared a dark secret. We are uberfans of crime podcasts. Time stopped in The Body Shop (thankfully there was another assistant to serve customers) as we talked over the top of one another- '...and Real Crime Profile...do you listen to Somebody Knows Something...what about Paul Holes, who solved the Golden State Killer case last month?...and the killer turned out to be a cop! Imagine that interrogation!...' I will spare you any more of the details of our conversation. As we would say in the English classroom, you will feel marginalised if true crime is not your thing. If it is, please leave recommendations in the comments below!

I should add that I went into The Body Shop to buy a shower lily for my sister to use when she visits next week. I'm surprised that I remembered to pick it up from the counter, so intense was our conversation. Hence the photo at the top of this post, and the mystery solved.

What will stay with me and nourish me for time to come is the joy of seeing Hannah and engaging with her in a way that we just never had time for when we were in the classroom. Of seeing this vibrant not-a-girl-any-more, and remembering the seventeen year old she used to be. There is joy to be found in teaching and knowing that you have the privilege of being part of the education of future generations. And there is joy to be found in an old coffee mug and a love of true crime.

Santa Claus or Stalker?

 

I'm afraid I have bad news for you. The jolly old chap in the red suit is a stalker. And I have evidence.

But first, some background.

Yes, it's that time of the year again. November. The cue for Christmas songs (and I differentiate 'songs' from 'carols' because they are not the same thing!) to be blaring from every shop you enter. It's the time of year when I have the most sympathy for shop assistants; at least I get to leave the shop. They are required to stay and endure the sort of torture that is probably being used to prise secrets from captured agents in foreign lands. 'Tell us the code, or we'll play Mariah Carey again singing "All I want for Christmas is yooooooooou" '.

Just in case you think I don't enjoy the spirit of Christmas, I will provide some photographic evidence. Here I am around Christmas 1959, snuggled up to my big sister in a cane saucer chair that became 'so last year' and is now firmly back in fashion. Note the blackboard on the left. A prediction that we would both become teachers? Note also the spangly live Christmas tree, which was eventually planted in the yard and became an enormous thing which dropped long spiky leaves which had us picking prickles out of our bare feet every year. Witness the happy faces on the children as we clutch our Christmas booty!
 

Fast forward to 1994, and the one of the next generation is beaming as she, too, has unwrapped her loot and is clearly pleased with the haul. Note the open fireplace!!!!!

Now, many of you would know that I am a retired English teacher, and old habits die hard. Today I was in Target, and as I strolled the aisles I listened more carefully than usual to the lyrics of 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town'. I have to say I was shocked. Here is the evidence I offer in support of my earlier statement about Stalker Santa:

1. He sees you when you're sleeping
2. He knows when you're awake
3. He keeps lists, and he checks them. A lot.
4. He enlists the help of Elf on a Shelf to be his eyes and ears in the house in the lead up to Christmas (and I have to confess that I only learned that this was his function recently). Don't be fooled, people! That cute looking little red fella is a spy! Look at those eyes! I bet they follow you around the room. He reports back to Santa about all of your movements.

So, in essence, this is not Father Christmas. This is Orwell's Big Brother! We are being watched, all the time. We are being brainwashed when we go shopping by the endless songs. They even play 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas' in the melting heat of an Australian summer. Dream on, I say, it aint gonna happen. It's thought control!

Of course, some of this is tongue in cheek. Personally, I'm just happy that the awful Daiso Halloween window display- a child size mannequin with a bloody axe embedded in its head- is gone, replaced by spangles and inflatable Santas. I love the spirit of Christmas: watching 'A Muppet Christmas Carol' for the umpteenth time; singing along to the beautiful 'Silent Night', composed on a guitar one snowy night in Salzburg in 1818; being together with my family; putting out my precious Nativity set in the wooden stable made for me by my darling Dad, who we raise a glass to each Christmas.

The memory of our first Christmas with Sarah, less than four weeks old. 'When A Child is Born' never had more meaning, and each year I'm reminded of the child born over 2,000 years ago in Bethlehem. The one who grew up to speak of being kind, and loving one another.

I don't want to sound like Scrooge, and say 'Bah, humbug!' to Christmas. I actually love it. But consider yourselves warned.

You might just be being stalked by a fat guy in a red suit.

Bullied no more: reflection of things past

Blogger's note: I have previously published this post on a different blogsite, so if you recognize the photo at the top, no need to read on (although you are quite welcome to!) Today I had lunch with my 'tribe'- mentioned in the original post. We were discussing what we would do to celebrate our 60th birthdays next year, and I had told them about my blog and they all wanted a link to it. So, this post is dedicated to Susan, Michele, Lyn and Diana- my tribe.
 
The memories are still raw, over forty years later. Teenage girls can be so cruel- back in 1971, things were different from today. Nobody could send you a nasty text, or share an image online. Then, as they still do now, they practised their particular art by exclusion. The knowing smiles. The vandalized books. The mimicking.

And it hurt.

It’s fair to say that I was very naïve, but I was only thirteen, and if you can’t be naïve when you are in Year 8 then I don’t know when you can. They seemed so much more worldly than me. They would include me in their conversations, and then later disown me. I would leave my desk to collect an item from the science trolley and come back to find my notebook smeared with some unidentifiable substance. I was even kicked in the shins.

I wanted to leave.

I was actually pretty popular with my peers. I was elected class captain, and I’d always got on well with other people. I took my school work seriously, and at that stage I wasn’t really interested in boys like some of the other girls whose bodies were much more developed than mine and who spoke about things I had no experience of.

I was a pretty good runner, good enough to be in a relay team. I loved the training sessions and the constant practice of the baton changes. I liked being in a team which included girls of all ages- the Year 12s seemed so grown up, and they were very kind to we younger ones.

It was an escape.

With Mum’s urging, I hung in there. I made it to the end of Year 8, found a couple of new friends, and was ready to face Year 9. I was getting smarter about who I hung around with. As Rebecca Sparrow would say, I ‘found my tribe’.

But something happened, and its significance wasn’t apparent until it was athletics season again.

I grew.

In fact, I shot up. I no longer had to stand on tiptoe to see myself in the bathroom mirror. It was a typical growth spurt for someone my age. I ate as if there was no tomorrow- in those days I could eat an entire block of Cadbury chocolate on the train trip home. Of course, the other girls were in various stages of the same process, and looking back at the school photos you can see how the back row changed year by year.

The inter-house athletics carnival was the first activity on the athletics calendar. It was the event when PE teachers started to take note of performances and times. I still thought of myself as the third fastest in my age group, so nominated myself for events accordingly. I was looking forward to the day.

And then, things changed. Diane W, the fastest in my age group, came and asked me if I’d sub for her in the first division race because she wasn’t feeling well. ‘Okay,’ I said, thinking this is going to be interesting. I’m going to be creamed.

The gun fired, and we were off. I felt as if I was flying. I could take many more strides over 100 metres than the other girls- lots of fast twitch fibres. I still weighed next to nothing, but my new height had transformed the biomechanics of my body and I bolted ahead of the others and flashed over the finishing line first.

I was gobsmacked.

A minute later, Mrs C, always the announcer for school carnivals (why is that?), spoke over the PA. ‘And that’s a new record for the 14 years 100 metres by Diane W.’ After all, she was the name on the list of nominees. Diane, bless her, raced over to me and said, ‘Quick, come with me. I’ll go and explain to the recording table and to Mrs C that it was you that was running.’

So then everyone knew. A new announcement gave the correction and I heard my name broadcast across the oval. Was this for real?

Yes, it was. In fact, it was very real. I was the fastest in my age group. Actually, I was the fastest in all age groups, for the next four years. I performed well at interschool competitions and in Year 11 and 12 I won the ‘blue ribbon’ event- the 100 metres. I was appointed Athletics Captain.

And guess what? From that day in Year 9, I didn’t care about the bullies any more. I simply couldn’t give a stuff. Because I had found the thing that I was good at- really good at. I walked with my shoulders back and my head high. My ‘tribe’ grew, and over forty years later I regularly have lunch with some of them. They are the same ‘girls’ now as they were then.

My experience is probably not much different from many teenage girls, then and now. But the lessons I learned have stayed with me, and I’ve passed them on to the girls I’ve taught.

• As Rebecca would say, hang around with the people who bring out the best in you.
• Try lots of different things- you never know what you might be good at.
• Listen to your Mum- she’s much wiser than you think.

 

Mum, the movies and old Graceville

'That's where Grandma used to play tennis.' I slowed to a halt outside a house in Bank Road, Graceville, not because I wanted to see the house, but because I was trying to picture my Grandmother, born in 1897, playing tennis. She lived to 90, and I was trying to reconcile the elderly lady with a more athletic one in tennis whites, as she surely would have been. Grandma did things properly.


Grandma, middle, at Coolangatta, 1922

It's Bad News Week/Month/Year

 

Yes, I'm Curious Pam. I'm curious about the world and lots of things in it. Particularly when I was teaching, I tried to stay abreast of the news because my students would often ask me questions about current events and I wanted to be informed about them.

 

Now, I'm Irritated Pam. I no longer watch the television news because it's too depressing. Yes, occasionally there might be a 'soft' good news story, usually involving an animal, just before the weather. Once a week, The Project runs a segment of good news stories, and ABC News has a 'good news' section also. But people around the world are doing life affirming, brilliant things; we just don't get to hear about them, because apparently most of the news networks seem to think that we want to be fed a diet of disaster, violence, tragedy and crime. The same can be said for the tabloid newspapers.

 

I'm not asking for unicorns and rainbows every day. I have friends who are journalists (and some former students, too) and I know that they work damn hard to do their absolute best to deliver news that is ethical, informed and balanced. It seems that someone higher up the chain makes editorial decisions that result in the fodder that is delivered to us daily.

 

I checked the ABC news headlines as I was waiting for the ads to finish at the movies today, and this is what I saw:



 

Apparently the only tragedy among these stories is a yacht having to retire from the Sydney to Hobart race. Yes, tragedy is in inverted commas, presumably because it's a quotation from someone associated with Wild Oats XI. (By the time I got home and checked the story, it had been updated and 'tragedy' was no longer in the story. Perhaps someone saw sense?) But this was a hydraulic problem which affected the keel and presumably the steering of the yacht (I am an old sailor from way back, but that's another story.) A tweet from Wild Oats XI was quick to point out that the 'crew on board are safe', and fair enough. Many of us remember the real tragedy of the 1998 race when six lives were lost in an enormous storm that engulfed the race.

Please don't think I'm picking on the sailors who are much braver than me and take on this race. It's just that I couldn't help but think that missing people, dying people, people blinded by a shooting, and drowning people (can you see a trend here?) are probably more 'tragic' than the yacht story. Couldn't the headline have been different? Couldn't there have been more stories like the one about George Michael?

Perhaps I'm getting cranky in my old age. I've certainly had an opportunity to reassess my world view since my surgery. There are good things happening in the world, and the ABC does report them. To finish, here's a good news story worth sharing:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-05-30/campbell-project-365-sees-teddy-bears-made-for-charity/7458530

Rant over. For now.

Music, Alzheimer's and Glen Campbell

Glenn Campbell on his Farewell Tour in 2012
 

Glen Campbell walks onto the stage to a standing ovation and greets his audience. He launches into the first song of the set. He is 76 years old and has Alzheimer's Disease.

I've just finished watching I'll Be Me on Netflix. It's a documentary that he and his family authorised in order to raise awareness about this awful disease. It is heartbreaking, inspiring and at the same time it raises questions about the mysteries of that amazing organ, the human brain.

For my younger readers, Glen Campbell has sold 45 million records over 50 years. While country music isn't my favourite genre, some of his songs are just so much a part of the soundtrack of my life that I love to hear them. "Galveston" and "Wichita Lineman", and the later "Rhinestone Cowboy" just make me sing along- loudly. I have downloaded them onto my iPhone. So, I was interested to watch this documentary.

 

What I kept wondering was: how is it that he can't remember the names of his wife and children, yet he still sings just as well as he used to (with the aid of a teleprompter for the lyrics). And how the hell can he play those amazing guitar riffs. In what part of his brain is that music tucked away?

Glen and his daughter Ashley play Duelling Banjos

 

My Dad passed away from Alzheimer's Disease just over a year ago, so I have seen first hand how this form of dementia ravages even the most brilliant of brains, yet it leaves little pockets that sometimes empty themselves at the most unexpected moments. One day I was taking Dad on our regular Saturday drive, in the hope that it would stimulate his brain and some conversation. As we drove along Gold Creek Road at Brookfield, he started to sing. I didn't recognize the song, and the words were unintelligible, but there was a melody and rhythm that made it clear that this was a song that he remembered. I was flabbergasted.

 

A couple of weeks later, Mum and I visited Dad on the day that there was a concert for the residents at the nursing home. A small, neatly dressed man was brought in and came over to where Dad's recliner chair was parked. He spoke to me but I couldn't understand what he was saying, until his carer asked if we could move Dad's chair a little so the man could get to the piano. I obliged, and the man sat on the piano stool, placed his hands on the keys, and launched into the most amazing classical piece, played from memory. When he was finished, we all applauded, and he was led back to the secure dementia wing. He had been a concert pianist in Europe.

 

I couldn't help thinking about these incidents as I watched the documentary, and the decline of Glen Campbell. One of the lovely aspects of the concert footage was the presence of three of his children performing on stage with him, gently prompting him, improvising and loving him. When he forgot the words, the audience sang them and he picked up and continued. After 120 performances, it became clear to the family that it was time to stop.

Glen and his sons perform together in 2012

I will leave it to you to Google Glen's status today. He leaves a legacy of music that has become a part of the American, if not the world's, song book. He lobbied Congress to raise awareness about Alzheimer's, and every performance of his farewell tour did likewise. But it still leaves the question: how does the brain retain music, yet lose just about everything else? Perhaps one day we will have an answer. Perhaps one day, Alzheimer's Disease will be something that we only read about in text books.