Chapter Eleven
Gradually Winding Down
The final week of term and I’m gradually winding down. I’ve persuaded staff a slow withdrawal is preferable to rapid cut off. However, winding down to the last day means the damn disco and wondering how many will attend. What the consequences might be I dread to think.
Peter and I eventually collected all the money from the sponsored table tennis marathon taking it to the local Guide Dogs for the Blind Association committee. This meant me waiting in Cricklewood sleaze, walking around the station, peering into the damp, dark distance, searching for Peter’s stooped shouldered shape. At the appointed time he arrives, we climb into the Volvo and drive to Hendon. A welcome greets us and our ₤216. 91p valued, though the ₤50,000 they have raised this year alone seems unreal. I ask Peter to tell the committee how he came about the idea and what the students did to realise it. He does. A few questions are asked and the meeting dissolves, which gives me the opportunity to shoot a couple of photos of the handshaking and him handing over the cash. The break also gives Peter a chance to eat, rather, exhibit his voracious gluttony.
Peter’s Jewish and seems surprised at Jewish symbols adorning the house asking the owner, the secretary of the committee, who herself is Jewish, if “there are any other Jewish people here?” “Why, most of us”, she asserts and proceeds to name the committee members.
“Mmmm…” he utters devouring more food before elaborating on his background, the special schools he’s attended, his salubrious Finchley flat and his parents separation. It becomes obvious why he’s stuffing his face so furiously, he can’t cook and with a rent like his it’s a wonder he can afford to eat - it’s more than I pick up in a week. Still, make hay whilst the sun shines I guess.
“Richard”, he says, as we leave the house, “would you like to see my flat?”
“Sure, but I can’t stay long.”
We drive through Finchley, past Conservative headquarters and turn left into a leafy avenue. His flat mate is in and we pass idle chatter for ten minutes after which Peter gives me a guided tour of the cavernous accommodation to the sound of his dad bought CD thumping Tchaikovsky’s 1812.
My white board messages are becoming more bizarre. Students have realized the world didn’t end in the small hours, otherwise they’d be far from Hendon and I doubt if staff would have turned up anyhow, no matter how conscientious. Nor am I certain if I’d have time to initiate the discussion I want on students powers to influence events. Nevertheless, I write another message to drop a hint what’s written isn’t necessarily true: “Yesterday I said the world was coming to an end. It didn’t. Why not? Who is to blame?” The response was unexpected. Anne, fixed on these pearls of esoteric wisdom, wrote underneath, clearly, if a little untidily, “yesterday my life came to an end for me. I think it’s me to blame for everything I do. It’s not working for me.” However, despite her protestations of severe depression she’s beginning to smile and even engaged Dean with a passing, erratic game of ‘catch me if you can’. I enquire of her if she died yesterday who wrote the message and to whom I’m talking. I get no reply other than, “Oh, Richard!”
We’re continuing our assertion training sessions with Julia who has a video for us to watch. The group manifests as much interest as a condemned man at dawn other than restlessness. I suggest we stop the film at key points to discuss its contents. This preferred approach produces unexpected results. The film highlights the importance of group support, believing in oneself and how low self esteem is more pronounced when negative responses come from somebody close and important. They begin to talk.
“I don’t like being talked about”, says Chung, “especially when people say nasty things about me.”
“Yes, but what do you do when a certain member of staff makes comments to you and Tricia?”
“Well, I tell him to keep his comments to himself.”
“That’s being assertive, isn’t it? It’s saying they’ve no rights to poke their nose into your affairs.”
We view more of the film discussing the effects and consequences of not sharing thoughts and feelings.
“It gives me stress and makes me feel like I’m dying,” chips in Anne. I ask her what it means to initiate things in her life, but they don’t understand the meaning of initiate. I explain. “It means doing things for yourself and not slavishly copying others. It means thinking how you can change the world, even just a little piece of it.”
“What’s that got to do with stress?”
“Why do you get stressed?,” I retort.
“Because others order us around and make us do what they want, even if we don’t agree with what we’re being told to do.”
“It’s denying yourself, isn’t it?”, says Tricia.
“And being assertive and initiating is not denying yourself,” I add.
Cowboy Lee begins to get restless, he’s being needled by Sunil and is ready to explode. “Lee, why don’t you say what’s making you mad?”
“I’m trying to ignore him. I don’t want to hit him, anyway, he can hit me if he wants, it’s OK, I won’t feel it”
Loud laughs and jeers.
“Of course you will, silly!”, yells Tricia.
“I don’t know,” adds Paul with exasperation, “he’ll never learn.”
“Lee, why don’t you tell him to leave you alone?”
“I can’t!”
“Why don’t you try.”
“Say, ‘Sunil will you leave me alone and stop insulting me.’”
“Lee, stand up and say it”, says Tricia.
Slowly, with encouragement from the class, Lee bucks up courage and Sunil begins to look sheepish.
“Sunil, will you stop annoying me!”
“Lee, can you say it louder?”
“No, I can’t,” he bellows, “I’ve got a sore throat”, as students fall about laughing at his thunderclap voice shaking metal window frames. Not content to say it once he intones again, and again, until the pitch and tenor are serious and just right, before sitting down in the saddle. After the break Julia asks us to make positive comments about ourselves by saying “I’m not …”
They find this difficult needing several attempts to master the negative sounding way of asserting themselves. Dean rolls off first because he’s nearest to Julia loudly exclaiming, “I’m not fat!”
“I’m not a cripple”, shouts Lee dismounting from his horse.
“I’m not stuck”, smiled Paul from his chair.
“I’m not stupid, or thick”, asserted Chung as his voice cracked.
“I’m not a freak”, laughed Tricia.
“I’m not stupid either”, said me.
“Wannabet!” came the chorus.
“I’m not frightened”, said Anne.
“I’m not stupid either”, shouted Sunil.
2
The second years have sold the 23 sets of Christmas cards they silk screened in their art class and have decided to donate the money to the Oxfam shop on Mill Hill Broadway. Christmas spirit bubbling away nicely. The group is preparing for the end of term disco but with Hamish off ill and missing their bakery lessons they’re short on comestibles. A quick chat with student services produces enough cash to purchase necessary goodies; three chocolate Christmas Logs and masses of macaroons. My request for Sage Derby, however, isn’t met. By 11.30 we’re in the community centre getting the food organized, much of it donated by the students’ parents, on two extremely large tables in the quiet space just off the main hall where the disco equipment is stage mounted.
Nish has come incredibly well dressed designating himself doorman and bouncer. Some of the students’ mill around excitedly to see how Nish handles the expected trouble from the estate triads as he refers to the local youths. Peter, ever useful, helps get the disco equipment set up and I go looking for the dimmer switches for the main lights. Most of the rest congregate around the floor unsure how to dance, embarrassed about letting themselves go in public. All we need now are the students who’ve bought the tickets. Some of the older special needs students, those with severe learning difficulties troop in first and immediately commence to bop in strange gyratory movements to music that leaves me stone cold and not a little deaf from its thumping roar. More students arrive from various other groups, as do Mike and Carol.
The entrance is getting busy and as people enter Nish collects their ticket or their one pound fifty pence entrance fee. The food is rapidly disappearing as are the contents of numerous spirit bottles. Mike has a word with them; the centre isn’t licensed therefore we can’t drink alcohol. However, as there’s no sign of law enforcement we dutifully collect the bottles as they’re drained dropping them surreptitiously into a rubbish bin. I try to teach the first year laggards to rock n ’roll, and much else besides, but they mock me. Tricia and Chung remain aloof from the festivities standing outside the centre despite the cold wind. I ask them what’s going on, but receive no reply. I suspect it’s a biggy, but I’ll have to wait for the New Year to discover what.
