The owner of the second factory and wooden leg had a curious way of dealing with others. His mouth did not just contain a fag with brown spittle leaking, but mouth was also set permanently at twenty past eight o’clock and he would spend the day creaking around the factory floor with gammy leg, sneering and leering at the cavorting going on. At times he would get into his strides and gun for me. He would grab my hair and pull my head towards the floor. ‘You forgot this bit here’ he would say. Look at it, you bastard, ‘here’ and he would spit a lifetime of smoking induced load of phlegm onto the floor. Those unfortunate experiences were tolerated when considering that the pay off, at least, was not having to join in any buggering in front of the capstan lathe machine.
Again, at some time later and another job, as an apprentice spectacle maker in Clarence Street, Sydney, the initiation for the young and upcoming workforce was for the adults to get Ultra marine blue or Cobalt blue dye in powder form and after taking the pants down of the uninitiated, rub this powdered dye around the genitals of the hapless victim. This dye was so strong it would stain legs, genitals and clothes for weeks. Later on when I found out that this was widespread and tolerated and accepted as an almost essential part of ‘growing up’, I knew that there was a serious and serial kind of bullying going on. Of course, at that time I was also astonished to observe young kids going to schools in quasi army uniforms and with mock rifles slung over their tiny shoulders. Was there a war still? Girls, in the middle of hot summers with black skirts, black tops, black hats, black stockings and even black gloves. Was there some connection between all that and bullying?
My younger brothers and single sister in the meantime were enrolled at different schools. Some at the primary school locally, and two brothers to a catholic high school, called ‘De La Salle’ College. It was not long before our parents found out that the punishment of whacking her children with a ruler or cane was not all that rare, so off the ‘chief of staff’, (mother) went to confront the Head ‘Brother” of this ‘benevolent’ College wanting to stop the bullying by physical violence of her children. The practise that was commonly used would be the voluntary holding up of the palm of hands, whereby the kindly ‘brother’ would sweep down at full throttle and hit the upturned palm with the ruler. Another much liked version was the hitting of hands with the knuckles up. This was popular because it inflicted so much more pain and was even more effective in installing subservience and non questioning education in pupils.
Another perplexing insight in this new country was given that for children to move up to the next level of education, this did not depend on having passed examinations on subjects, but rather on how much someone had grown up? The younger ones did not have the advantage that Frank and I had of having had a few years of English back in Holland, so it was perhaps much harder those first couple of years for the younger brothers and sister to stay in front. When it was suggested that John should perhaps spend another year at the same level, the answer was that John was so tall he could not possibly spend another year in the same class.



When I was a kid I went to a catholic primary school in Thirroul. We were taught by mean, evil and vicious nuns somehow linked to Mary MacKillop. Anyway they used to belt us for anything and everything. One day I was getting the cane and I pulled my hand away and the old beak hit herself in the leg inflicting great pain. She then laid into me big time but from that day on I knew I had got her a beauty, bitch!
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Thank god we had no nuns to belt us and no frocked priests to cane us, we just grew up naturally into nice adults 🙂 so now we have no need to pay back anything to anyone… (nice and cheap)
I loved every day of school, the only growing pains i had were my sore ankles for playing in the snow too long 🙂
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Sounds great, no wonder I’m so bitter and twisted 🙂
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Thirroul?
Was that the place were DH Lawrence lived for a while or was that Cole-Dale?
I remember camping on the beach at Coledale. My brother and I caught the train with our BSA 22 rifles and tent.We were not used to closing the windows of the train when going through a tunnel. At those earlier times, the trains were locomotive driven, so… The car soon filled up with smoke, much to the delight of other passengers. It was easy going then and perhaps a more tolerant society. More time and more laughter.
Anyway, my brother and I got off at Coledale and promptly met a local boy who showed us the finer points of how to shoot rabbits and where.
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Gez, DH Lawrence was the exception to Thirroul. Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.
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Yes GO, DH Lawrence lived in Thirroul. His house was called “Wywork”, I understand exactly how he feels.
We lived in Austinmer, very upper class. Austinmer is next to Coledale, where the poor people lived. Very nice part of the world.
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Could’ve been worse. The brothers might have made your bottoms sore!
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The things that went on at factories and possibly elsewhere at the time might explain the ease by which so much was accepted as the norm later on.
The ease by which we allowed the D.Hicks story and children overboard to be so readily accepted. I often wonder if J Howard and his many cohorts also were given some of the cobalt experience.
Ruddock with his pinched up face who seemed to stick to his belief in keeping refugees locked up under the most inhospitable conditions, way out in the desert. Was he also subjected to some horror?
The disappointment of Rudd’s stance on Henson. What made him say that, I don’t like that sort of stuff? Was he a victim of some cruelty?
We often give what has been given to us.
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Ah there’s nothing like a ‘schooldays’ story to have us all wallowing in nostalgia…
I remember with particular fondness, the skill with which the nuns at a certain school in Edinburgh used to rap our knuckles – with the edge of the ruler, mind you, not the flat! – if ever we should make the mistake of holding a knife or a fork incorrectly in the dining hall, or a writing or drawing implement incorrectly in class… Such lethal accuracy of attack -often from extremely difficult angles – bespoke a physical dexterity which one could not but admire.
These nuns’ favorite implement of torture, however, was the ‘strop’… a strip of leather about two feet long and three inches wide, split up the middle deliberately to prevent any pain-ameliorating cushion of air to build up underneath it, and with a purposely-shaped handle for a better grip; some thought had gone into the purpose of this intrument!
And then there were the cane-happy teachers and even headmasters I encountered in secondary schools… Ah yes… Tom Brown and me had a lot in common, I fear. In fact when I first read that book I thought it was written about me!
Nowadays I realize that our society is inherently abusive and so such institutionalized violence does not surprise me; indeed one can read it as a metaphor for the overarching social process of our abusive society… As Warrigal’s comment suggests, it’s all about ‘knowing one’s place’ in an ultra-hierarchical society…
‘Clique-ism’ is so parochial, don’t you think?
😉
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When I went to high school in the Netherlands, those canings and strappings did not happen. One of the best things I remember was the teacher who had the ability to tell the most amazing stories, just out of his head.
He was our English language teacher and his story would be continued each week. We all were spellbound. Apparently, it was then not uncommon for people to be able to spin yarns and keep audiences spell bound for hours. There surely must still be people that can do this.
My mum was brought up in an orphanage when both her parents succumbed to the Spanish Flu. She had some horror stories to tell about those dreadful nuns, making the girls get up early and scrub those marble halls on their knees, in Amsterdam. The place was called ‘Maagden Huis’, translated ‘Virgin’s House’.
Google it and translate in English!
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Of course, I had some pretty good teachers too; though even some of these were ‘disciplinarians’ who would not think twice about using corporal punishment on an unruly student…
You were lucky in Holland, though, to avoid what today we recognize as physical abuse. I too have had teachers who told wonderful stories, but in those days people – even schoolkids – seemed to have the attention span to listen to a story which is somewhat longer than a 30-second sound bite.
Of course, the storytelling tradition goes waaaaaaaaaaay back among the celtic and germanic peoples… And some of us still love the art…
I will google it… your ‘Maagden Huis’ nuns sound a lot like the nuns from St Margaret’s Convent (and home for unwed mothers; thereby hangs another tale of much institutionalized sadism) who often used to give us lessons and catechism at the local Catholic Boys’ School in Portobello.
Must say that apart from school, I loved Portobello, a seaside suburb of Edinburgh; the beach was less than 100 yards down the road and there was a permanent funfair and promenade that were wonderfully eerie places to wander around in winter when it was all closed up…
🙂
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The only time I have ever been personally subjected to buital and unusual bullying was at Camp MacKay, The Police Citizens Boys Club retreat in the Blue Mountains.
I was about 9 years old and had been caught talking after lights out. I was heard through a wall mind you.
One of the officers charged with our care, a mean spirited Highway Patrol officer, got three of us little blokes out of bed, he couldn’t be sure which one of us it was, and made us stand with our feet together and our arms fully raised above our heads. I don’t know how long it took but it was some time and the memory now is filled with shame and iniquity, but we all eventually lost control of our arms and as each of us collapsed in what was significant pain curiously associated with a certain numbness, he cuffed us back to our beds with his slipper, this accompanied by gratuitous abuse about how weak we were and unlikely to ever be good cops. His parting shot as he angrily turned off the light was along the lines of “if I hear any of you crying I’ll be back for round two.”
Bastard!
I avoided a similar initiative at St Paul’s College at Sydney Uni. Having been invited to a Fresher’s “meet and greet” I dutifully made my way to the senior common room to discover that this was a college sanctioned hazing event. The Freshers were made to stand on the table while food was thrown at them and abuse hurled. All the time they were vigorously interrogated by the senior “men” of the college. I kid you not, the most common questions asked were “were did you go to school?” and “what does your father do?”
I simply stepped out of line and made my way to the door where a senior “man” barred my way. Even though I later discovered that his nickname was “Fighting Jack”, on this occasion my look of contempt and the intimation that violence might ensure if he continued to block the door seemed to convince him that this ceremonial brutality, intimidation and belittling was perhaps optional for me. Before I left at the end of first term I’d been assaulted twice by groups of masked college “men” who wanted me to be in no doubt that “knowing one’s place” was a central tenet of college lore. So much for the sodality of like minded scholars. I lived in shared digs for the rest of my time at Uni.
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Warrigal, I was a college uni student in about the last year before this was legislated out. Like yourself…I bucked the system (funny there is common thread here of experience), in my case by refusing to get out of bed when ordered in the middle of the night and was peremptorily ordered again, I said no and was ordered again, I said no and was asked why not. I still astonish to think on why not. I said it was stupid, fascist, dangerous, that I was shocked in the then political climate and asked her to leave especially because I had heard intimation the fire hoses would be turned on for freshers expected to repel an anticipated invasion through the windows of mens college into the womens college equivalent.
In Primary School a teacher tortured me emotionally until a Headmaster intervened… He was not my class teacher until I was Grade 8. Nevertheless, he started when I was in Grade One with a comment dropped sotto voce as he walked past a group of us engaged in a labouring task we had been set to. He took another swipe a couple of years later when he was on lunchtime playground duty and said something abusive sotto voce to me and my play companion. Then it came to my attention he was variously known as having ‘favourites’, about which an occasional parent would be retaliatory and he would cease, but came his opportunity with me … he was on his home run to retirement in the following year so perhaps attempted to bat for six thinking he likely had a mediocre career as an abuser. .. er, I mean teacher. The only reason anybody found him out in the first place was I burst into tears sitting eating my lunch (I walked home for lunch) and my mother handled it well, with me and then telephoned the headmaster. The headmaster handled it well enough I reflect for what I knew of it and as well the abuse stopped. The abuser got the last word in however before he was silenced … when he walked past me on his way to a visit on summons to the Head. Never allow a genuine bone fide abuser access to an abusee when the abuser is on the way to the execution … they may be revengeful thinking the abusee grassed. I was too frightened by him to tell the headmaster or my mother what he gestured and said. I remain bereft that he died … before I understood what had happened to me and was then old enough to recognise justice needed to be served instead of his finishing his career in a condition of (polite) public acclaim.
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