Sleepless once more

Had a couple of night's sleep straight through and IN BED. More than half the time lately I've been sleeping on the sofa. I seem to be more comfortable there and can sleep for a few hours - but I thought I might be "over" the insomnia. Think again.

Maybe it's a function of aging, but bits and pieces of my childhood come back quite strongly these days. Anything can trigger those memories.

This time it was reading some articles about bullying in the schools. It seems a frequent topic lately and I'm pretty certain that most kids have to deal with it at some time in their lives.

If you had asked me a few weeks ago, I wouldn't have applied that term to my experience as a child but after reading these articles, it's quite clear to me that I was bullied and terrorized in school, particularly in England. Although when I think of it, I got bullied in elementary school in Los Angeles too. It was part of the reason I tried to get rid of my English accent as it made me "different".

I went to school in England from the time I was 4 until I was 10 when we came to the USA. And I think that, being a pretty happy natured child, I just rolled with the punches for the most part. I certainly never came home and complained to my Mother, let alone my Father. I knew instinctively that that would only lead to trouble.

Being a German in wartime England didn't enhance me to the English.
Being a "stranger" in a small town (a very small town) in 1930's England was also not a winning situation. England was very insular, homogenous and isolated in those years. So that when an American soldier's camp opened up on our farm (or the farm where we lived), it was like the people there were from another planet. Oh, did I mention they were black soldiers? In those days, called Negroes.

I was in a similar category. I might have been white, but I had this name "Helga" - not English (trust me on this one). Although the teacher's called me the "little Polish girl", it fooled no-one and confused the hell out of me.
My Mother hated the Poles and the last thing we would identify as, would be Polish.

And then I was Jewish - not that they had ever seen a Jew. Many expected us to have horns. I had curly hair where everyone else had dead straight hair. My parents had thick accents and spoke to me in German (usually when they wanted me to get rid of my friends - which was often). So we were alien beings.

I got called "Jerry" a lot - which was a derogatory name for Germans. Never invited to anyone's home except once or twice when I sensed I was an object of "interest".

I remember being chased a few times - we lived waaay far out on this farm and most of the kids were from town. So if I could get through the tunnel that went under the train tracks, I was home free. Once I got cornered and
turned back on my pursuers and blubbered "You only want me for my jewels." Which surprised me a lot since I had no idea what I was refering to. It surprised the chasers too as they stopped cold, looked bewildered and sheepishly slipped away.

I was challenged to fights too. I always won those. I was big for my age, heavier than kids my age and I had my secret weapon which even when they knew what it was, they couldn't figure out how to get around it.
I just knew I didn't want to get hit. So as soon as they reached from me, I grasped their hands with mine and twisted their fingers backward. It worked every time and they gave in quickly.

The English seemed to fight fair - something I didn't experience in the USA.
Here if I grasped their hands, they'd kick me or try to. Still, I usually managed to come out on top.

On the playground, I had a small group of kids who would play with me - and I willingly and happily took the low man on the totem pole. I'd be Trigger to their Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Or I'd be "Boy" to their Tarzan and Jane. Just once I wish I could have been Tarzan.

When my kids complained of being bullied I gave them the advice I had learned - fight back. Even if you lose, they get tired of having to fight you every time. But, their different personalities had more problems with what had worked for me.

I think another thing that made me the object of bullying was that I was good in school.

The English school system at that time didn't have a distinct school year with everyone moving up at the same time. The teacher's moved you up a grade when they thought you had learned whatever that form or grade required. Kids moved up more or less quickly but generally were the same age in the same form.

I wasn't like that. I got moved up quickly and was soon 3 years ahead of my age group. I was stuck in the 6th form for years because I couldn't take the exams that would move me to another school (either academic or technical) until I was 10 (I think) - I turned 10 the day we arrived in New York so I never did take those tests. Funny, but I arrived in England from Germany on my 2nd birthday!

Moving up that quickly made me stand out from the other children and made all the teachers notice me. I was fairly oblivious. It was only in retrospect that I realized what an odd ball I was and how it made me stand out from the other children. Of course, it was a pretty small pool in which I was a big fish and it was a big shock to come to Los Angeles and start school and not be a "star" - or even noticed.

Schools were MUCH more rigid here in the USA.

For example: In England you were free to talk and chatter with the other kids until the teacher rapped her desk and then you settled down to listen to the class instruction. In the USA, you were supposed to be silent as soon as you sat in your desk and not speak unless called on. And you stayed silent until the bell rang releasing you.

I got into a lot of trouble in my first school until I figured that out.

Most of the teachers in England were nice to me and appreciated my enthusiasm for learning - and I did love to learn. But the Principal, Miss Slin, did not like me and every mistake on my part gave her an opportunity to punish me. Fortunately, she didn't teach any of my classes, but whenever she got her hands on me, she managed to hurt me.

Miss Slin had - among her less appealing jobs - to check our hair for lice.
She used a metal comb to comb through our hair for this purpose. She almost drew blood on me, digging that comb into my scalp. But my impression was that she did that to all the kids not just me. But I knew she was not my friend.

Sometimes, if I were walking home through the town, people would make remarks to me, or about me. I knew they were unflattering, unkind and sometimes scary but generally I had this childish ability to be oblivious of anyone over 4 feet tall.

Many of the kids had Fathers, brothers, Uncles etc. in the Army. I remember one time a girl I knew came over and kicked my in the stomach.
It was totally out of the blue for me, but some of the kids explained her Father had been killed in the war. I don't know how she decided I should be targeted, but the label "Jerry" said it all.

For me, the war was background music to my life. The radio played all day every day and my parents hovered over it to try and understand newscasts as though their lives depended on it. I didn't really understand just how much our lives did depend on it. We all had gas masks and knew how to use them. We all knew where to go if there was a bombing attack. Or how to hide under desks or tables in school - much like the "drop drills" of the Cold War in Los Angeles, years later.

Winston Churchills' voice was as familiar as my parents. And sometimes I had to translate or explain what he said as their English wasn't up for it.
Well, mine wasn't all the sophisticated either, but I could at least give them the gist of the message.

There were no men of my Father's age in town. There were "old" men, and little boys. Occasionally men would show up in uniform and there would be great excitement - but more frequently they just weren't around.

The black soldiers were an oddity in more ways than one. They were casual, easy going, had lots of food, gave the kids chocolate and me books.
I read everything I could get my hands on and Mickey Spillane was one of my early readers. I got the books from the soldiers - my Father was responsible for carting out their garbage and he was appalled at the waste.
But he got their old books for me. It was years before I found out what "going on the lam" meant.

There were black babies showing up in town by the time the war was over.
There was no onus to having one either as far as I remember.

Well, I've strayed away from bullying - but it was all part of the experience of being a kid in wartime England.