For most people, high school was a living hell. The pressure to fit in, combined with the torment from other students, often turns what should have been a positive growing experience into some joyride for the damned. Not only do we have to wage war against external forces, which we plunge into every weekday, we also have to battle the churning mass of hormones which possesses our still developing bodies. We are almost grown, almost but not quite. High school, for me, consisted of the 5-year option in advanced courses and university prep. I also studied music and theatre arts, they were my only reprieve. Strathroy District Collegiate Institute once stood were the Sprucedale Care Center now does. Located near downtown Strathroy , Ontario Thames River
The first day of high school is like dropping 1500 teenagers into the Sahara desert and telling them to find water. Good luck with that. For almost 5 years, we try to quench our thirst. We all try to blend, try to fit in, and for some it really works. For the rest, damnation. Throughout my tenure at SDCI, I had friends, struggles and everything you can imagine might happen to a pre-bipolar teenager running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Literally, the entire time I was in high school is sewn into dark layers of a mind preparing for madness. I began the long process of acting based on impulse rather than control based on instinct. I was a bully to some. I was a royal pain in the ass to most. The homosexual panic I experienced did little to stop my well-driven pursuit of pleasure. I was animal, all action and little thought. On any given day, I felt like standing in the cafeteria and screaming until my throat bled. I even dated, although I could not actually grow a beard of my own, at that time.
“Raven hair and ruby lips
Echoed voices in the night
She’s a restless spirit on an endless flight
Woo hoo, witchy woman
See how high she flies
Woo hoo, witchy woman
She got the moon in her eye”
Occasionally, as you travel along on the beaten path called an education, someone stands out. A counsellor, a teacher or a staff member makes a difference, they connect with you. It might have been the lunch lady from the kitchen who made you feel welcome or the janitor who joked with you every day, but somewhere, somehow you found a ray of hope. For me, it worked the other way around. When I walked into Vivian Gettas’ Grade 9 English class, I didn’t believe in witches. When she made me sit at the front of the class rather than at the back with my friends, I knew I had a problem, a wicked problem. I checked the roof for flying monkeys. When I told her to stuff it, I began my frequent journey from room 212 to the front office. The two of us just never got along. She appeared a cold, heartless bitch who liked nothing more than to provoke me. So I let her. That entire first year with her was like pulling pins from a cactus. We just didn’t click with each other and I often told her off just for fun. When I graduated her class and moved on to the summer, I thought that the wicked witch was dead. I suppose karma is a bitch too. When I walked into room 212 on the first day of Grade 10, she greeted me with, “Mr. Daw, welcome. Please take your seat at the front of the class like last year.” I could have smacked her. Five years in a row, I walked into that same room to that same face, sneering at me like a rat about to mate. God, I hated her. Five years, five English classes, five travels to the dark side. It got to the point where I liked hating her. I thrived on causing havoc whenever we rubbed shoulders. I actually looked forward to my descent each day. She seemed to find me amusing, frequently playing the game along with me. I was not the chiselled intellectual I now claim to be, so back then she beat me every time. She was one smart cookie. I kept trying and she kept playing. Until the last day of Grade 13, we snarled at each other whenever we got the chance. In Grade 12, I got a part in the school production of Anything Goes. The Cole Porter classic was embraced by the entire school and we all performed with grand spectacle. It was very much so, a success. When I auditioned, I walked into the music room and found myself face to face with my mortal enemy. She sat smiling at me, like she got some rush from the power of making me squirm. When our eyes met, we both almost laughed together.
“She held me spellbound in the night
Dancing shadows and firelight
Crazy laughter in another room
And she drove herself to madness with a silver spoon
Woo hoo, witchy woman
See how high she flies
Woo hoo, witchy woman
She got the moon in her eye”
Recently on Facebook, a friend from my high school days requested I add them to my friends list. It took me some time to decide what to do. I’ll admit I try not to dwell on those moments from my life. I am ashamed of how I treated the people who cared about me the most. There were no excuses. I decided to give in to temptation and I allowed him access. The floodgates opened. As I searched my mind, there was little for me to evade and avoid. Each person who flashed in my mind had already been dealt with and stored, never to be heard from again. Of all the people I knew back then, most have left, some have gone. The invasion stirred the pot a little. I started to ask myself, who mattered the most from that time? Who left the most enduring impression? Much to my surprise, the thing that I hated the most back when mattered more to me now. Somehow among all those years of humiliation and misery, I had a refuge after all.
I don’t recall ever skipping Miss Gettas’ class. I liked the course of study and especially the way she taught. I never had the chance to tell her that and maybe I wish that I had. Her classroom style made things interesting. It wasn’t some old skool method. She allowed each student to partake, to become involved in the depth of each lesson. She made Shakespeare come to life by acting each part, not just reading it. Blake, Atwood and Salinger became an exploration rather than a lecture. I wanted to go to her class, even though I hated her guts. I think in a strange way, the only way I learned anything was under duress. She demanded more. She made me write, then she made me write some more. As a writer, a composer of sorts, it was Vivian Gettas who taught me more, influenced me more than any other teacher, no matter how great. She gave me the freedom to sculpt my words rather than just writing them. When I got the part in Anything Goes, Vivian rode me hard the entire time. As director, she always demanded more from me than she did with the other members of the cast. I was a jack of all trades, a compliment she made on the last day of rehearsal. I have to admit that I did not see her then as I do now. I could not see past my personal biases to actually want to learn from the woman. Apparently, I did exactly that regardless of myself. It has been several decades since the fall of SDCI. All the years of students and staff filling the halls have faded along with the buildings and the chalkboards and the study desks. Room 212 has ended but not in my memory. There is not a lot of love lost between me and my days in high school. I was miserable most of the time. Luckily I had a daily refuge, even if I didn’t know it. Despite everything, I still think of Witchiepoo in a special way. Her craft is so transparent to my wandering eye. I can see her broom clearly, resting against the wall behind her desk. It waits for her to ride. Off she goes to the western sky.
“Woo hoo, witchy woman
See how high she flies
Woo hoo, witchy woman
She got the moon in her eye”
(Witchy Woman, The Eagles 1972)
The high school is gone, and in its place stands that retirement home, all polished and new. All the people and events from a lifetime of learning are lost to the winds which blow memory away. We only have our own thoughts to call on, to look to. Sometimes those memories need a trigger and a little attention. I saw a picture of Vivian Gettas when I checked out the profile of my newest Facebook friend. Her short hair. Her Greek features. Those glasses. She sat with a group of SDCI students on a trip to Europe . They went to Paris Paris
Photo
https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/450360031457239503/
Sources
https://simplekel.blogspot.com/2011/03/rice-cakes.html
http://thinkexist.com/quotations/learning/
http://www.quotegarden.com/homosexuality.html
http://www.librarything.com/author/whitetheodoreh
