Continuation...

School continued to be difficult.  There are some incidents that stand out in my mind.  In Grade 3, Mrs. Marshall, my teacher, became annoyed with me and sent me to get the strap from another teacher in the school.  I can't remember what I did wrong; I think it was that I may not have coloured my bear brown as the instructions indicated.  I coloured him purple.  I was embarrassed as I went from classroom to classroom to find the strap.  I was shaking when I returned to the classroom.  Mrs. Marshall took me into the cloakroom and took hold of my hand.  I remember her raising her hand with the strap...I didn't feel it.  It probably didn't hit me as I slithered down the back wall into a tearful puddle on the floor.  I do remember her telling me never to tell my parents.  My father, at the time, was vice-principal of the school.  I did what I was told.

Years later when I was in Grade 11 or 12,  our family was sitting around the kitchen table, and somehow the opportunity was there to tell my parents about the strapping incident.  Tears clouded my father's eyes, and both he and my mother asked why I hadn't told them.  I gave the reasons.  Usually when we complained about our teachers, the first question our parents asked was, "What did you do to provoke the teacher?"  But not this time.  Dad indicated he would have confronted Mrs. Marshall even at this late date, but she was dying.  It felt good to know that my parents did not question the veracity of my experience.

Junior High was a less horrendous experience, but still the anxiety persisted.  Friends were in short supply, and I was often by myself.

In grade 7, we all had to get our individual pictures taken.  Since I had been ill the day the pictures were taken, I had to go to the studio downtown.  There was just me and the photographer.  Instantly, I became anxious.  I wanted out and fast.  I had a brown raincoat on, buttoned to the neck, and my short curly hair was a mess.  "Just take the picture."  "Don't you want to comb your hair?"  "No."  I have since thrown that yearbook out.  The picture wasn't reflective of me--no smile, hair sticking up, and a look of pure panic on my face.  I can't remember anyone saying much about the picture, but I imagine it embarrassed my mother who always took such care in sending us to school on picture days looking our best.