Hmmmm . . . .
this isn't going to be funny, or particularly impressive, but here's what suburban Melbourne was like in the 70s/80s for a Greek kid . . .

I grew up in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne, and started kindergarten at 3 (I was keen to start early!). I was fairly bright as a kid, I could read before I started "proper school" (thanks Dad!) and I could spell my own surname (which is bloody long and not very Anglo Saxon).

The Primary school I ended up in consisted of the equivalent of today's Chavs. Being the *only* wog (calm down, it's not an insult here any more, but it was then) until my brother and a Sri Lankan family showed up, meant those seven years were fun, to say the least.
We did have a Vietnamese girl in the same year as me, but she was quiet, and as she did all the pretty drawings that the shit-for-brains teachers wanted, and she had lovely, girly handwriting, she was forever branded an "angel" and never bothered (being Asian, it was also far less acceptable for her to be the target of my white-trash teacher, but the Greek was fair game).

Where to start? I (and brother-in-law of Legless) were always walked to school, always had a decent lunch packed for us, always had clean, patch-free clothes (the significance of this is that two migrants on minimum wage kept their children looked-after). We didn't necessarily have a lot, but I don't remember complaining for a lack of anything.

I had a combination of nice but indifferent teachers, and one in particular who I hope is burning in the confines of Hell. She, funnily enough, was married to an Englishman (a Geordie I realiise now!) and at the time, was about 50-60 years old. I never heard a word of encouragement from this sorry excuse for a human being, and she delighted in making my brother feel like a thicko (who was, and is, not academically minded . . . but is a bright little bugger when he wants to be). I spent two years with this harridan, wondering why the other kids would get the smiles and nods of ecouragement, and I would get a scowl for the same/much better work. Why someone giving me scars on my knees I still have now from repeatedly knocking me into a wall never received punishment, but me slapping the same bastard for an insult was repayed with a seesion in the corner of the room (funnily enough, she never told my parents).

I remember having my father come up to school more mornings than I'd like to "discuss" (ie: come close to knocking the stuffing out of) some little shit who thought bashing me/ making fun of my name/culture/family and be told by this shining example of public teaching that "he meant no harm, and his Mum's a single mother, surely you should feel sorry for him."

So, why am I reasonbly well balanced as adult, with no particular scars (other than physical) from my fun time there?

I left that school as a grade 6, and was sent to a Catholic secondary school - nothing posh, just one where academic results were important enough to decide whether you remained enrolled - you work hard, you stay. And most of those attending were non-Anglo Saxon. In fact, I could count them on one hand . . .

No one gave a rat's arse what you looked like, what your name was; and if you could read well, and enjoyed studying, people actually *liked* you. A far cry from the hole in the ground I spent seven years festering in.

That primary school has since been bulldozed; I cheered the day they brought the wrecking ball in.


It's unpleasant to recall any part of that time; but just like all phases of one's life - it's gone. The old bag has since, I'm told passed away . . . and un-Christian though it is, I'm relieved to hear it. Many of the children at that school are probably living out their lives like the rest of us - there's no comfort in thinking that they'll be destitute, or dead, or raising mini-Chavs in Moe.

More to the point, their behaviour back then had to come from somewhere - children don't become racists (that's probably what we would call that today) off their own bat. More influential than what's on TV, the environment at home probably had a lot to do with how they behaved at school.

So, to the old class of 1987, I hope you're lives are fulfilling, and I hope the racists stereotypes your folks instilled at home have gotten you into all sorts of trouble . . . especially in grown up land, where there's no teacher there to make excuses for you . . .
( Mrs Legless . . . belongs to, well, you know . . . :), Thu 14 May 2009, 4:01, 3 replies)

children
are utter utter cunts - and that teacher sounds like a bitch.]
I'm glad you escaped relatively unscathed.
(Poppet some assembly required., Thu 14 May 2009, 7:40, closed)

glad you are okay
I think i'd have been as gleeful as you on seeing the school demolished! x
(LittleWhiteTreat, Thu 14 May 2009, 8:46, closed)

I bet
they all live in Frankston now :0)
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Thu 14 May 2009, 11:37, closed)