AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS
BLOG : 10th October 2008.
BUONGIORNO, READERS!
I am a student. I am female. I attend a Steiner School in the “biggest little town in Australia”. I have just begun my final year of school under the HSC regime. Let’s see how it pans out.
BLOG: OCTOBER 15th.
Today was a bad day. I am going to fail Italian beginners’ due to administerial ineptitude. My Italian teacher Mrs McGrath continues to give me marks such as “eight-and-three-quarters out of ten” or “four-and-nine-tenths out of five”. As I am studying via correspondence I am beginning to fear she is a deranged amputee who places equity on the part over the whole.
I mean, what does she want from me? What is the meaning of “four fifths”? Is this the proper unclaimed truth behind the dotting of the i’s and the crossing of the t’s? Or is my teacher indeed a victim of a literal “eye for an eye” or “a tooth for a tooth”? Perhaps she is footless or missing a digit, without womb or worse? Is she mentally incapacitated? Rendered sterile? Or simply a neurotic naturalist who thrives on meticulous categorization? Let’s just say I am dreading our meeting at the Distance Education “mini-school” convention next month. Porco dio! (You may have to check your dictionary for that one).
BLOG: NOVEMBER. 1st.
Caro blog,
Today was a bad day.
Ahh, my life has become nothing but a series of “groundhog days”: fretting about not doing enough homework, fretting about doing too much homework and thus becoming an antisocial nerd-type character… The vicious cycle continues as I roll on down the exam treadmill to my ultimate death, or so I have been lead to believe.
One teacher (we needn’t name names… although, handy hint: ruddy complexion, beige to bottle-green clothing tonal range, gnome-like appearance, often uses cheesecake as metaphor for life) wisely stated “This is the most important year of your natural born lives”. Brilliant! That does take some of the pressure off: can’t you see the weight on my shoulders lift? So too my well-practiced hunch (developed through many years of badass teen angst) lifts and is cured! No, wait - you can’t, because this statement shockingly enough has not ‘taken a load off’; in fact, I’m pretty sure scoliosis has just rolled in.
And, I’m sorry… What?! Most important year of my life? Dear Lord, I hope not.
What about the year I was born?
What about the year I learnt to:
Talk?
Read?
Write?
Catch a fish?
Blow a bubblegum bubble?
Tie a knot?
Brush my teeth?
Joined nippers?
Discovered the rainbow order?
The year Harry Potter and I became teenagers?
Bought my first Tamagotchi virtual pet?
Got corn-row hair braids?
Made toast solo?
Owned a small rodent? Got bitten by a small rodent? (same year)
Felted?
Caught a plane?
Threw up?
Rode a horse?
Spat?
Waxed my legs?
Not to mention the years to come!
* * * * *
I am currently supposed to be studying ‘the enduring resonance of futurism in postmodern art’, but as I have been told time and time again, “PRIORITISE.” So futurism has been one-upped by pessimism.
‘THE LIST OF THINGS THE WORLD COULD DO WITHOUT’
I have painstakingly been poring over ‘the list’ in the past week, refining and refreshing. So continues my epistemological distillation. Results as follows (in order of significance):
School
Adolf Hitler
Atomic bombs
Crocs (the orthopedic shoe)
Country and western music
My entire extended family
Corduroy fabric
The Distance Education faculty
Shoulder pads
Lady Gaga
Cigarettes
Lice
Lice products
Excess body hair
Male pattern baldness
Wheatgrass
Hemp clothing (I live in the Byron Shire; we are notoriously of the ‘hippy’ description)
Bikram yoga
Tropical ulcers
Pretentious people
The colour beige
Note: school (which will now become known as ‘ball-and-freaking-chain’ or BFC) heads the list. Hope this gives you something to stew over.
Arrivederci! Alla settimana prossima!
(‘See you next week!’, as they say in overtly chipper tones on my outdated Distance Ed Italian TAPES! I kid you not, yes, tapes… I have often pondered whether their content was directly derived from the etchings on a stone-age wall. I am yet to receive solid proof to the contrary).
BLOG: NOVEMBER 26th
Today was a bad day.
The dreaded Distance Education mini-convention has finally rolled around. Myself and fellow co-sufferer drove for an hour from our outback post to the local regional centre to meet our teacher and fellow Distance Education classmates.
Upon our arrival at the prison-like brick building marked on our map, we looked at each other with the fear of two virgins entering the cage of a wild mythical beast.
We were not disappointed. Two hours into the convention our fears had been confirmed Although, she does have all her limbs, my Italian teacher, Mrs McGrath, appears to be a victim of borderline foreign/native disorder (someone who thinks and dreams in an exotic foreign language, yet speaks plain English). Judging by her attire, she could be a model for Target’s ’40 and sporty’ range; not exactly the epitome of Milano chic.
I am left wondering if she has ever been to Italy, as her insistent references suggest- ‘ah; to be in Firenze in the Spring, then you will know you have lived’?
After just one period at said “convention” we were feeling conspicuous, probably due to our lack of uniform, which are non-existent in Steiner schools. (Steiner teachers “want to see us as individuals, not a collective”, or alternatively, they want to terrorize our parents into buying us a collection of practical, festively-coloured unbranded garments; but I guess if a lack of uniform can produce presidents in the most powerfully militarized country in the world, it can’t be all bad). After co-sufferer and I shared a meaningful glance and a “chk chk boom” loading of our exit barrels, we fled in the middle of an excruciating soliloquy by the director of the Italian Department. Exercising our powers of discretion and time management, we took advantage of our city limits and went to see an Italian film at the cinema. It was educational. And there’s no doubting the popcorn was better than the mini-school welcome barfet!
BLOG: FEBRUARY 9th 2009
Today was a weird day. Mi amo LA VITA! Despite my rugged physical appearance and numerous Steiner faux pas (including my part in the creation of a performance piece entitled “S.H.E.T” - Society and Habitat for Eurythmists in Training - a parody of a Eurythmy performance; read: a Steiner dance the teachers are very passionate about, performed by select educators at school productions), I have managed to persuade the College of Teachers, (against their better judgment), to employ me as the columnist at The BC - our weekly school newspaper. With this I may achieve some extra credits that will allow me to apply for early entry to university so I am not forced to rely solely on my UAI mark; yes, I do fear the prospect of failing dismally. In a form of academic Stockholm Syndrome, I feel some sick need to be accepted by the very establishment that I mock. Ah, the irony.
I’m excited, although my extracurricular journalistic efforts pale in comparison to all the other activities that have no doubt consumed the lives of my elite HSC competitors since they were nine. I mean, when do these people have fun?! Still, they all seem convinced that they’ll be having plenty of fun when they get into ‘The Right University’. Clearly, being a good student isn’t enough. Back to my hole.
BLOG: FEBRUARY 28th
Today was a bad day. I have to think up a new name for The BC - the school newspaper. For those from whom the titles below draw a blank stare, you have obviously not had an extended involvement with the Steiner community. I have taken the liberty of giving a brief explanation of each Steiner-specific term. But first, let me shed some light on Steiner Education itself, “Steiner schools have a unique and distinctive approach to educating children, aiming to enable each stage of growth to be fully and vividly enjoyed and experienced. The academic, artistic and social aspects, or ‘head, heart & hands’, are treated as complementary facets of a single program of learning, allowing each to throw light on the others.”
The Fountain Pen (Fountain pen = Steiner initiation rite transitioning on from crayons/ pencils, often presented at year seven graduation)
The Eurythmy Slipper (a specialist slipper used to enhance one’s eurythmy abilities)
Enterprise Steiner
CRAYON - Culture of Rudolf’s Anthroposophic Youth Organization Newspaper
FELTelegraph (Every Steiner student has created least one rainbow felt object)
The Derwent Spectrum (Derwents are the commonly used brand of coloured pencil)
The Crayon Continuum
The Daily Border (Borders around the edges of your workbooks are a daily requirement at any Steiner school)
The Waldorf Morning Verse (a verse or poem is recited in cult-like fashion by each Steiner class every morning)
The Magenta Crayon (Magenta = my personal fave crayon colour)
The Recorder (OK. This is often toted in a rainbow finger-knitted case. It is a small, simple wind instrument; more akin to a clumsy clarinet made by neanderthals. It is perfectly-crafted to emit a sound I can only liken to a banshee in labour. And that is when it is being played well; in the case of a younger and less experienced recorder player the noise can be fatal to the eardrums and everything in between them.)
All suggestions welcome.
BLOG: April 1st
Today was a bad day. A Kinder kid threw sand at me. It got in my eye. Now I have a bung eye. And I had to hand in my first column for the Daily Border (formerly The BC). I have posted it below for your enjoyment:
Salutations, Readers!
I, Gracie Star, have been successful in my application to become your new leading columnist. Ironically, this jubilant news rendered me speechless as I was immediately overcome by a severe case of writer’s block.
As I feverishly scrolled down the page of a ‘what to write about when you’re frantic for a deadline’ list on the Internet, I came across the suggestion of “Your fondest childhood memory”.
I mentally spooled through the abundance of wild and wacky family holidays, fairy parties, sweaty summer days slaving over various cubby houses, class plays (not so much in the “fond” category), and babycinos at the cafe while mum shopped at the local ‘Menswear with Flair’ (this shop is located in our main street, crammed to the rafters with every piece of stock ever purchased since its Grand Opening in 1962. Rio shirts vie for rack space alongside flared jeans, body shirts, shoulder pads and enough corduroy to make me feel ill.) ‘Menswear with Flair’ was where she’d buy Dad his shark-resistant board shorts every summer. (Presuming sharks have a sense of style that is!) And speaking of board shorts… my mind has been halted on its rampage of nostalgia upon recognizing a memory I like to call THE HEADS!
The Heads is place where it would seem they have applied the rule ‘do not enter unless you require a walking frame to roam the earth”, such is its density of the pensioner species. The Heads is our family’s preferred holiday destination.
Back in the day, this was how it went:
I helped pile all my chosen belongings into the back of our Tarago, taking special care with my stuffed giraffe, who went by the name of Giraffy. Soon we were off, after just one emergency back-track for miscellaneous belongings. My sisters and I all crammed in the back listening to our Winnie the Pooh cassette collection, drawing and having the occasional pencil ownership-based brawl. We would stare out the window in wild anticipation of a sighting of the Big Prawn, Big Banana, or Sugarcane factory, all landmarks that - if you spotted them first - would imbue you with some sort of godlike status for the rest of the trip.
The car was hot and sweaty after two hours’ driving, and we would literally hurl ourselves out upon our arrival at the caravan park. Dad would offload our bikes and then he and mum would send us to search out our cousins while they found a campsite and set up. We rode wildly through the red and yellow plastic playground ruled by our boy cousin in his awkward pocket-laden cargo pants and shapeless Hot Tuna excuse for a t-shirt. He was always clutching a bag of lollies and often sucking his trademark gobstopper, which made him look like a ruddy puffer fish.
Soon it was lunchtime and every immediate and distant relative would gather at the benches under the huge she-oak trees and feast on barbecued slabs of meat lathered in tomato sauce. We, of course, were not allowed such delicacies and Mum set us up with our homemade tofu and zucchini burgers. When lunch was done we would send the youngest and cutest sibling over to the table where the ‘elders’ would be playing some ‘grown ups’ card game we were not allowed to partake in. A well-rehearsed begging routine never failed: Dad always coughed up so that we could go to the canteen and buy our beloved sweets. Fifty cents of sheer joy was our reward, affording us our treasured wizz fizzes , sherbert dips and gummy feet. Boy cousin always took longer because he got a whole two dollars, which we rationalized was because he did not have any siblings to share with.
We would loll about in the sun for hours, lazing on the beach, sporting rash shirts, hats and copious lathers of sun screen. Yabby hunting with Uncle Nicky and Pop was a concluding activity, our return to the caravan heralded utter exhaustion. Have dinner, collect towel, shower thongs, bath robe, PJs and 20 cents to put in the little box for a hot shower, return warm and clean and be tucked into swag beds with our sleeping bags snug around us, drifting off to the familiar sound of the Mum/Dad/Nana/Pop susurration and the aunts and uncles still outside around the table talking about some familial gossip.
Yes, I kid you not, I did at one point in my dolce vita enjoy the company of my next of kin. Now they are only seen as an uncalled for distraction. A gathering involving my family now goes something like this:
It was an exceptional day of cinematic perfection, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, even the graveyard across the road had a chipper ‘love life’ vibe to it… and then it was like I got punked, they caught me unawares! They attacked our abode with the force of a tsunami on heat.
This ‘gathering’ - which could be more correctly described as cult-like rally - involved
everyone from the two male relations uncle and cousin, with the same christian name, a Nana, Aunty and little cousin, ditto on the christian name; although one may have thought this antiquated naming custom would have fallen by the wayside it is still alive and well in my family! Probably more understandable when you consider they have all mustered in from the beef capital of Australia and surrounds for this “joyous” occasion. Notwithstanding the people I didn’t even know, who where they?! Who was that small child scampering around with the air of a cage mouse released into the wild?
Who was that middle aged woman smiling manically at me as she exclaimed how the last time she had seen me I was only this (puts thumb and forefinger an inch apart in a demonstration of extreme tininess) big; NO, I felt like screaming at her, “NO, that would not in fact have been the last time you saw me, as I would have been in the WOMB. And if you are going to ask me whether I remember you, maybe you should just take a step back and reflect on what you are about to say, because if I was as excessively miniscule and embryonic as you implied then do you think I would have developed any form of long term memory? NO.”
After this “polite” exchange with unknown relative #1, Mother shot me a meaningful jaw-clamped look and I was instructed to go and kindle a fire in the backyard for the young relatives’ enjoyment. I, in return, gave her the bitter stink-eye and asked her to remember the deal she had struck with me that went something like this: “If you don’t finish your English major work by the end of this week you will not be allowed to go to the major music festival I have tickets for on the weekend”. After her recognition of said deal I told her this little arrangement was now dead to me.
From these ponderings I have concluded that the Board of Studies should designate at least one ‘guilt free family day’ per month. This would serve the dual purpose of relieving stress and giving students an alternate coping vice for their anger beyond the more commonly resorted-to hard drugs and alcohol. More suggestions from me next week.
