ByLine

Sometimes words count less than what lies beneath them.

The morning came, without any warning, when my sisters surrounded me, wrapped me in scarves, tied up my bootlaces, thrust a cap on my head, and stuffed a baked patato in my pocket.
“What’s this?” I said.
“You’re starting school today.”
“I ain’t. I’m stopping ‘ome.”
“Now, come on, Loll. You’re a big boy now.”
“I ain’t.”
“You are.”
“Boo-hoo.”
They picked me up bodily, kicking and bawling, and carried me up to the road.
“Boys who don’t go to school get put into boxes, and turn into rabbits, and get chopped up Sundays.”
I felt this was overdoing it rather, but I said no more after that. I arrived at the school just three feet tall and fatly wrapped in my scarves. The playground roared like a rodeo, and the potato burned through my thigh. Old boots, ragged stockings, torn trousers and skirts, went skating and skidding around me. The rabble closed in; I was encircled; grit flew in my face like shrapnel. Tall girls with frizzled hair, and huge boys with sharp elbows, began to prod me with hideous interest. They plucked at my scarves, spun me round like a top, screwed my nose, and stole my potato.

The above is an excerpt from one of my favorite books (Cider With Rosie by Laurie Lee), and fairly closely describes my own experience on beginning the first day of school. For the next six years I sat in the back of the classroom, looking out the window mostly; only occasionally turning to look toward the front of the room at the clock which was mounted above the blackboard…to see how much time remained before I could leave, and be free.

When I was fifteen I left school for good. And have seldom had need to look at a clock since.