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