An exercise in memory and education

Sometimes when I get bored I like to hit the "random" button on blog sites and see what pops up.  This is how I discovered idontbelieveingrammar.  I seriously love this blog and can often relate to how the author writes.  I often repost her blog entries on my social media pages, and if I've missed a few posts I always find time to actually catch up and read what I've missed.

Tonight was a catch up night.  And she didn't disappoint.  As a high school teacher, idontbelieveingrammar was reflecting on a book she read recently that invited students to review their educational experience.  idontbelieveingrammar is embarking on a similar reflection and I liked the idea so much I decided to do the same.  So here, in a nutshell, is what I remember from...

Kindergarten

My family had just moved to London, Ontario, and I was starting French Immersion school.  I attended Lord Roberts and my teacher was Rachelle LePage - a Quebecoise.  I was thrilled that my teacher had the same name as me, and I was in love with my first day of school outfit - a black dress with Bambi and Thumper stitched on the bottom.

I remember learning a song about a mouse on a grey carpet, making a paper mache' easter egg, and bringing a praying mantis in for show and tell.  I remember my teacher making us a haunted house and taking us each through it individually... I was scared and thrilled all at once.  She used black garbage bags to make the walls and had string all over for spiderwebs... there were grapes and spaggetti and I felt soooo grown up being allowed to go in it.

There was a bathroom in the coatroom attached to our classroom.  One day my friend Jillian and I hid in the coatroom pretending to shoot at people outside.  A police car pulled up and we instantly transitioned into cops and robbers, at which point our teacher discovered us and gave us a pretty stern talking to.  Turned out the police officer was coming to our class to talk to us about safety, but Jillian and I thought he was there because we were in trouble.

I remember learning about colours combining to make new colours using play-doh and incredible story telling.  I was so excited to bring home my sample pieces and take my parents through the lesson... and they dutifully acted as though they never ever knew that yellow and blue made green when you mix them together.  My parents rock.

My school would provide periodic extra curricular classes we could sign up for, and I desperately wanted to take karate.  Unfortunately it filled up before I could get in and I had to settle for some much lesser activity.

I don't remember learning French in any formal capacity except for the word papillon (butterfly)... Mme. Rachelle kept trying to illustrate to us what the word meant and we stared at her blankly until someone exclaimed "ohhhh!!!! her hands are a butterfly!!"

The story behind one of your scars.

I have a very faint scar on my left elbow.  When I was about 7 years old I was an insane daredevil.  I would climb any tree, fence, rock, you name it.  I used to stand on our 2nd floor balcony and fantasize about being able to swing off it and land on my feet in the grass below.  I was convinced if the cat could do it I should be able to too.  Luckily my parents kept a close eye on me and so I didn't ever get the chance to try it out.

My bike was a different story.  Mum and Dad would allow me to go all the way around the block all day if I wanted to, without them having to come with me.  Our block came complete with speed bumps... which for me and my buddies meant a launching pad.  One time mum and dad were out and our cousin was babysitting.  She let me go out to ride my bike and hit speeds previously not attained (by me).  I hit one of the speed bumps on the corner and was airborne... except my body and bike decided to go in opposite directions.  I went flying about 6 feet and hit the pavement elbows first.  Both elbows and both knees got scraped up beyond recognition and I had crazy scabs for weeks afterward.  My cousin heard my screams from all the way down the street and came running... she tried to patch me up the best she could but I'm sure I didn't make it easy on her, it hurt so bad.

Ever since then I've been more subdued.  I'd still ride my bike, but wouldn't push so hard to fly.  I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere and I'm sure I have gone about things in the wrong manner, but it's been over 20 years and I still have the scar.  It may be teeny, it may be faded, and at times I think it's finally gone away, but it's still there as a reminder to me that it's ok to dream, but sometimes it's important to stay rooted as well.