Who am I?

Fear not, you haven’t found your way into the middle of an existential crisis. Nor have you stumbled across a burgeoning concussion. No, I can see how many fingers you’re holding up and, frankly, it would be impolite to comment.

My faculties, I assure you, remain, it’s just that, some days, I’m not quite sure if this version of me was actually the strongest contender or if it’s just the only one that survived the latest bug testing. In my heady days of anxiety-fuelled displeasure, my character, I’m afraid, was assembled entirely from nerves and twitches, taped together with the remnants of what little experiences I could still bring myself to face. But when all that was gone and I no longer had crazy to pin my personality to, what was left was a woman with the outline of a picture but nothing with which to colour it in.

I suppose it was a perfect chance to start again, but how do you rebuild your whole outlook when all you have is enthusiasm and some two-bit rebar? The best way, I’ve found, is to take yourself back to the very beginning, back to a place where values are drafted and characters formed, where the only pretentions wear capes and tiaras; back, dare I say it, to school.

Blackfriars Primary School in Glasgow is a warm hug on an otherwise cold morning. With a catchment area that includes the Gorbals, Laurieston and Oatlands, Blackfriars’ roll of 238 pupils forms a school that is both multi-cultural and multi-disciplinary, but single-minded in its ethos: to provide a safe and happy environment for children to develop individually, academically and socially. Basically, it’s nirvana, without the teen spirit.

Complete with an I.T. suite that makes Infinity Loop look positively Neolithic and a nurture room, known as the Rainforest Room, for those children who need a little extra care in their curriculum, Blackfriars reminded me just how much the educational beast has evolved since my days in its clutches. Sure, it wasn’t exactly abacuses at the ready in my day, but our smart boards were definitely more a function of chalk coordination than technological knowhow. My tour of the school’s facilities ended where I would begin: Mrs. Marsh’s infant room. A composite Primary 1 and 2 class with 19 pupils occupying its colour-coded tables, this particular group of infants were to be the audience for my teaching debut. As it turned out, there were many standing ovations throughout the day, although mostly through ants in pants rather than appreciation.

Headteacher, Mrs. McCleary, greeted me on arrival with a knowing look that, at the time, I took for schadenfreude but, by the end of the day, I realised was probably empathy. Returning to primary school as an adult is an exercise in nostalgia but also in perspective. The tiny chairs and safety scissors made me feel like I’d just fallen from a beanstalk but, beyond that, the sense memories of chalk dust and elongated vowels whisked me straight back to the height of childhood. It was like an Alice in Wonderland cocktail party in my psyche.

As the morning bell rang for small ears and big, I joined Mrs Marsh – or Susan to the grown-ups – in the playground to bring in the line. Even this simple task though, when I tried it on my own later in the day, was like trying to knit custard, as even with my best Pied Piper impersonation in full flow, leading a herd of five year-olds up a flight of stairs was simply beyond me. But, apparently, teaching starts the second the little darlings are within eye-shot, as Susan kicked off a game of Beat the Teacher and her pupils tripped quietly up to class, hopeful that their leader might be first to break her silence. Win or lose though, it seems to me that the teacher is never beaten in that battle of wits.

With jackets on pegs and bums on seats, it was time to tackle the order of the day, which was, well, the order of the day. Not being a parent and long since being an infant, I truly had no idea that a basic requirement for a child’s wellbeing is structure. And not only do they need to have it, they need to know it too. So, on the wall, like an educational TV guide, only in a much jauntier font, lives the planner, heralding the day’s activities for all to read. And for those who haven’t quite mastered those pesky phonics yet, Mrs. Marsh was on-hand with the audio version.

After the register, delivered in English but responded to in an incredible array of languages, it was time for a spelling quiz, which was as much a test of my contextualising skills as anything, since I struggled to come up with appropriate sentences to assist the audience’s understanding. Inappropriate sentences, sure, but I can’t imagine that a discussion of the make-up of sticky brown matter would have resulted in the correct spelling of oomska. Excitingly though, I was also given the task of marking the papers, in commanding green ink. My tiny ticks were questioned by an unsatisfied recipient but I’ve never been over-zealous in my penmanship.

At the all-school assembly, I was given the terrifying honour of addressing the 200-strong congregation in the dinner school, and managed to hold their attention for almost minutes at a time without the intercession of principal teacher, Mrs. McHutchison. Admittedly, their questions afterwards were more insightful than my entire presentation but they’re fuelled by curiosity and sugars, after all.

I thought it was particularly sneaky of Susan to fit in a swift maths session before playtime came a-calling but, in fact, I was mistaken. It wasn’t sneaky; it was Machiavellian. For this wasn’t just maths, this was Mental Maths. And, believe me, it was mental how much the kids enjoyed it. In each round of Killer Number, it astounded me how excited they became at the mere announcement of the deadly 16 as the one to watch or the murderous tendencies of the unlucky-for-some 13. I’m not sure if there’s a dastardly digit that wouldn’t have elicited such revelry, but if there was, it didn’t brandish its weapon.

Throughout the remainder of what was the quickest six hours of my life, I assisted to the best of my dubious ability with reading practice, literacy work and creative arts, trying hard not to confuse glitter and grammar during the transitions. But by far the most joyful lesson of the day – and, believe me, my hand betrays my heart as I type these words – was gym. Plain, soft-shoed gym; as the children chose their favourite games to teach the new girl, I learned the rules of Disco Tig and Duck Duck Goose, and discovered exactly what I’d been missing all those years of forging notes to the teacher: mainly exhaustion but also a truck-load of fun.

As every good afternoon should, my school day ended with story-time, and I was blessed with the role of narrator; The Obvious Elephant my script. While the children sat more or less peacefully around my feet, I told them the tale of the elephant who didn’t quite know who he was. There’s something about spending time with young people that refocuses the mind, not on what’s important, or what’s even true, but on what we fundamentally are, and I think we all need a bit of that in our lives now and again.

Maybe my world has changed beyond recognition then, but that doesn’t mean I’ve changed within that world. I guess, like for that silly elephant, it’s pretty obvious who I am after all. I just needed a trip back to school to learn that little life lesson.

Paula.