As we’ve discussed before, they really were brutal times in the 70/80s. The British education system has a lot to answer for. I often wonder if any of these teachers are still alive and if they’ve ever reflected on their actions, dare I say, regretted them. Thank God those days are over Robert. Great piece of writing as ever.
Last time I was home, I caught up with an old friend who was catching me up on all of the latest gossip, and she'd told me that she'd bumped into a different one of my form teachers (DU this time, not PU), and then went on to say what a lovely man he was.
That was a bit triggering for me, because my first memory of him wasn't that. It was how he used to close his hand around yours, and while he'd be talking very calmly and even smiling, he'd be pressing down on your nail beds until you were wimpering.
He could be kind and easygoing most days—and still find it completely normal to cause pain when it suited him. That contradiction is what stays with me.
To me that shows a very weird sadistic streak but I think that ran through the school system. I wonder what the kinder teachers thought about it all, the ones who cared and didn’t hit and must have been in the minority. It must have been hard for them to watch sometimes and difficult to complain about in that culture. Thank God our kids haven’t had to endure that.
Robert, I'm sorry this happened. People who can't regulate themselves in positions of power are dangerous. And, it does have effects throughout our lifetime, those scars don't just leave. It was a well written story, one I wish you hadn't had to write. ❤️
holy crap! i remember moving to middle class in primary school it must have been 1987 maybe and rumours were about that caning had been banned. Luckily I had never been caned but i had had to stand in the corner facing the wall with my hands on my head for some time, aged only 4. And i remember in my new class a "naughty" boy who i later found out had adhd, had had his plimsolls removed, the teacher then spanked him with said plimsoles in front of the class, and then hooked the plimsolls over the corner of the blackboard for us all to see - a warning. I"ll never forget it and I often wonder if that boy is ok today.
Wow, Rebecca—thank you for sharing that. What shakes me with memories like yours is how casual those moments were at the time. No one really blinked. It was just what happened. And yet the impact—especially on the ones most often singled out—can echo through a lifetime. The image of those plimsolls hooked over the blackboard feels like something out of a dystopian novel, but it was just… Tuesday. I often think about those kids too—the ones who weren’t being “bad” so much as being different in a system that didn’t know what to do with them. I’m grateful you carried your empathy through it all.
thank you! yes its a very strong image isn't it! and you're right - we did sort of just let it pass over us but it still made an impact. The warning was especially strong to me because i was the naughty (probably adhd) girl who played with the adhd boy - so it did have an impact on me - luckily for me I had some kind of impulse control but not much! i have a whole host of stories from high school about the emotional abuse i was given instead.
This is one of those times I wish Substack had more than just a 'heart' option. It seems, well, just... wrong... to click a heart to tell you how well you wrote this heartbreaking memory thread woven into the tapestry of your life. Yes, you wrote it very well. It's a story that will stay with the reader as they process the injustice, the cruelty, the emotional wounding. So, know that I click the heart as just one way to support you, Robert — and the inner child hiding in the corner, waiting to be held... to be understood... to be seen for all the wonders bursting from his soul.
Heather, your comment stopped me in my tracks—in the best way. Thank you for really seeing the piece, and for taking the time to write something so full of grace and care.
I think sometimes we remember the painful moments too vividly—the sound, the sting, the shame—but we forget to ask: Who was I then? What was I holding? What was I doing to survive?
That’s what this piece was really about. Not just the moment itself, but the boy behind it—the one who hid in classrooms, made people laugh, stayed quiet when it counted. Writing it was my way of reaching back—not just for myself, but for anyone else who hasn’t yet stopped to hold their younger self and say, “You made it. You’re safe now.”
I’m so grateful it landed with you. That means everything.
As we’ve discussed before, they really were brutal times in the 70/80s. The British education system has a lot to answer for. I often wonder if any of these teachers are still alive and if they’ve ever reflected on their actions, dare I say, regretted them. Thank God those days are over Robert. Great piece of writing as ever.
Thanks, Kate.
Last time I was home, I caught up with an old friend who was catching me up on all of the latest gossip, and she'd told me that she'd bumped into a different one of my form teachers (DU this time, not PU), and then went on to say what a lovely man he was.
That was a bit triggering for me, because my first memory of him wasn't that. It was how he used to close his hand around yours, and while he'd be talking very calmly and even smiling, he'd be pressing down on your nail beds until you were wimpering.
He could be kind and easygoing most days—and still find it completely normal to cause pain when it suited him. That contradiction is what stays with me.
To me that shows a very weird sadistic streak but I think that ran through the school system. I wonder what the kinder teachers thought about it all, the ones who cared and didn’t hit and must have been in the minority. It must have been hard for them to watch sometimes and difficult to complain about in that culture. Thank God our kids haven’t had to endure that.
Robert, I'm sorry this happened. People who can't regulate themselves in positions of power are dangerous. And, it does have effects throughout our lifetime, those scars don't just leave. It was a well written story, one I wish you hadn't had to write. ❤️
holy crap! i remember moving to middle class in primary school it must have been 1987 maybe and rumours were about that caning had been banned. Luckily I had never been caned but i had had to stand in the corner facing the wall with my hands on my head for some time, aged only 4. And i remember in my new class a "naughty" boy who i later found out had adhd, had had his plimsolls removed, the teacher then spanked him with said plimsoles in front of the class, and then hooked the plimsolls over the corner of the blackboard for us all to see - a warning. I"ll never forget it and I often wonder if that boy is ok today.
Wow, Rebecca—thank you for sharing that. What shakes me with memories like yours is how casual those moments were at the time. No one really blinked. It was just what happened. And yet the impact—especially on the ones most often singled out—can echo through a lifetime. The image of those plimsolls hooked over the blackboard feels like something out of a dystopian novel, but it was just… Tuesday. I often think about those kids too—the ones who weren’t being “bad” so much as being different in a system that didn’t know what to do with them. I’m grateful you carried your empathy through it all.
thank you! yes its a very strong image isn't it! and you're right - we did sort of just let it pass over us but it still made an impact. The warning was especially strong to me because i was the naughty (probably adhd) girl who played with the adhd boy - so it did have an impact on me - luckily for me I had some kind of impulse control but not much! i have a whole host of stories from high school about the emotional abuse i was given instead.
This is one of those times I wish Substack had more than just a 'heart' option. It seems, well, just... wrong... to click a heart to tell you how well you wrote this heartbreaking memory thread woven into the tapestry of your life. Yes, you wrote it very well. It's a story that will stay with the reader as they process the injustice, the cruelty, the emotional wounding. So, know that I click the heart as just one way to support you, Robert — and the inner child hiding in the corner, waiting to be held... to be understood... to be seen for all the wonders bursting from his soul.
Heather, your comment stopped me in my tracks—in the best way. Thank you for really seeing the piece, and for taking the time to write something so full of grace and care.
I think sometimes we remember the painful moments too vividly—the sound, the sting, the shame—but we forget to ask: Who was I then? What was I holding? What was I doing to survive?
That’s what this piece was really about. Not just the moment itself, but the boy behind it—the one who hid in classrooms, made people laugh, stayed quiet when it counted. Writing it was my way of reaching back—not just for myself, but for anyone else who hasn’t yet stopped to hold their younger self and say, “You made it. You’re safe now.”
I’m so grateful it landed with you. That means everything.
With love and thanks,
Robert
I hear you.
I see you.
My inner child and I continue to walk this path together. I reached out to her years ago.
Walking this path with her is a lifelong adventure...
holding her is a regular occurrence...
and she still needs occasional assurance that she's safe.
But this journey wouldn't be the same without her —
Indeed, I never could have undertaken it or gotten this far if not for her presence.