ℱerncrest AfterMath

25 October 2014

Amsterdam 

                         ℱ

My old grammar school no longer stands. A vacant lot is all that is left of it. Ferncrest lives on inside me as a large jumble of memories once sleeping in the deep recesses of my mind. 

The hallowed halls of my grammar school would, if they still stood, have many a school tale to tell. For six long years I was a student at that small private school in New Orleans. My last day was May 28, 1967.

AFTERMATH - and after English,  after Reading, Music, Art, etc. there was nothing left to do than to go through a ceremony aptly called "Commencement Exercises. "

"It's the 28ᵀᴴ of May, all the books are put away, and we all sit together for the very last day" …These lines I scribbled on a sheet of loose leaf paper, as a deep, sentimental feeling came upon me. 

I put my pencil down, and looked all around me at the faces of the kids in my class; people I shared good times and bad times with; individuals, many of whom, in all likelihood after today, I will see no more. 

They were all excitedly talking amongst themselves, but I was not in a talking mood. I drifted deep into thought.

Suddenly I snapped out of it. I picked a fine time to develop Stockholm Syndrome! What was I thinking? Sure I had a couple of good friends there, but for the most part, I was an outsider - never completely accepted by the group. 

To me, school was every bit as much an incarceration as it was an education. It was an experience that I tried so desperately to enjoy and profit from, so that, when at long last it would end, there would be something worth looking back upon - something salvageable from years of daily repression. 

I thought about the constant teasing, the comments, gossip, shunning, ridiculing, humiliation, and put-downs I received over the years. Sadly, and unbelievably, much of it came not from the children, but from the teachers! Those were the very people who were supposed to encourage, to lead by example…

Oh, well, it was over now. We were called to go outside, and we rose from our desks and walked down the old, winding wooden steps we had for so many years descended at dismissal. We did so as a class one last time.

Our songs were sung, I proudly marched up with the others to receive my awards: a straight 100% Spelling medal, and a Perfect Attendance medal. Though hardly gold, silver, or even bronze, at least I can say I went the distance.  

A little boy in the crowd asked his Mommie what were we marching for - and I asked myself the same question!

We made our way off the stage, away from the school that so many of them - so many of them - loved so dearly, and all I could think about was that I was FREE AT LAST!!

Back at home that afternoon, I lost no time attacking a file box which had lay in the same spot in my closet for six years - a box that once was empty, but now it was nearly full - full of test papers, homework, busywork, and the like. 

With a passion I rarely showed, I began to crumple up the first few - but then opted for a more efficient solution: I took the whole box of papers and summarily dumped them into a nearby dumpster - much to my mother's chagrin. 

It was done. It was a final ex-post-facto display of defiance. In that single act I had consigned to the dustbin six long, hard, miserable, painful years. So much effort, so much stress, so much pain was on those pages. Now I had got rid of them. When I closed the top of the dumpster, I had also shut tight the lid on that Pandora's Box of demons. I had completed another chapter of my life. 

Whereas my fellow classmates went on to attend expensive and well-known schools in the city, my family was not endowed with the financial wherewithal to send me to such erudite institutions. I had had my fill of institutions, and so I went to less-prestigious public schools from then on. 

I need to say here and now that never ever, from then on, did I experience any teasing, tattling, punishments, public humiliation, or any other bad or negative things I experienced at Frencrest.

Nevertheless, for years I looked at Ferncrest from a quasi-narcissistic viewpoint: it was always about me. 

Unlike true narcissists, however, I blamed myself for most, if not all of my bad experiences, even though common sense should have told me differently. My mea culpa auto-da-fé was also supported by many people close to me throughout the years, reinforcing this *self-blaming, and feelings of guilt I had. 

The years went by and I rarely looked back on those days. I had a life to get on with, and so I did. Every once in awhile I wondered how one or another of my classmates might have fared. I did bump into a few of them, and we were cordial with one another; only that and nothing more. 

I figured my former classmates would've gotten together for periodic class reunions, but I never got an invite. I suspected it was because I was not wanted. Funny thing, though: had I actually received an invitation, I would most assuredly not have attended - not for the first twenty years or so afterward. There was just too much pain. 

A few years ago a few former Ferncrest classmates whom I liked very much back then got in touch with me. I was surprised that they had fond memories of me - as I had had of them. We discussed funny and strange things that happened there. It was good to reminisce.

Later I corresponded with a few others, and bit-by-bit I discovered, to my complete surprise, that they, too, had had some negative experiences. It seems the old school was not all a bed of roses for them either. 

It is said that misery loves company, but I took no delight in their less-than-optimal experiences. 

However. I also felt vindicated: It turns out I was like the others after all: we were struggling, and all were afflicted with growing pains. It was a tough part of any child's development - and it seems to me that a few certain people were bound and determined to make it even harder.

One day I found a FaceBook page about Ferncrest. I was quite reluctant to make contact, but I did so anyway - mostly out of curiosity. I really was looking forward to posting funny, amusing little anecdotes and other "tales out of school" …but then those old memories came back. 

Relegated to the dark recesses of my mind, they emerged like bats from a cave - and came in a torrent I was helpless to stop. Like Pandora of old opening her box, the lid was lifted and my demons had escaped.

It was, at long last, time to confront an unhappy past that for so long I had done my utmost to forget. In order to put those years behind me, it becomes necessary to deal with the issues themselves.

In order to forget, one must first learn to forgive. This is always the most arduous of tasks. It is often quite tricky to sort out evil intent from kids just being kids, from situations I put myself into, from misunderstandings, and from things that just happen as part of growing up. The difficulty deepens when it becomes obvious that it is a combination of all those, as well as other factors.

Putting things into perspective, time heals all wounds. The converse is also true: time wounds all heels. 

In these days with commonplace violence in American schools, I guess I had it very good by comparison. Could those years have been better? Of course! Should it have been better? I believe it should have. It is all academic. 

At the time of this writing, my Ferncrest experience ended some 48 years ago. That says something as to how deeply I was impacted by it, that nearly a half-century later there is some pain. Since I am in my early sixties, the six years account for nearly 10% of my life, and when one considers they were important, formative years, it is plain to see why the impression was so great.

My hope now is to try to remember the good times there. 

The problem is, there were too few of them, I'm afraid.

I write this not to complain about real or perceived injustices there. Life is often not fair. I write this partially so that others out there who had similar experiences may feel vindicated, as I have been.  

Most of all, I write this for me.

AFTERMATH - and after English,  after Reading, Music, Art, etc., after the books closed and the school likewise ceased to be, at long last I, too, seek closure. 

I wish neither approval nor agreement from anyone. Others have their own stories. This was MY path, MY journey, MY story.

*"Self-blame is one of the most toxic forms of emotional abuse. It amplifies our perceived inadequacies, whether real or imagined, and paralyzes us before we can even begin to move forward." By Michael J. Formica, MS, MA, EdM on April 19, 2013 - Psychology Today