Schooling the Kacky-Hander

Childhood trauma, freeze response and the illusion of certainty

Self-portrait by the author.

The other kids’ heads were bent close to the page, all the better to concentrate on their wavering pencil strokes. They were practicing their handwriting, but I was standing alone at the front of the classroom, attempting to catch a tennis ball in my wrong-right hand. I guess I was the only left-hander in the room because I don’t remember Mrs Warner attempting to convert anyone else. Tony Schofield got to stand in the exact same spot, holding his right hand out with his palm upturned like mine, but his was getting struck with a wooden ruler. Mrs Warner was plump and warm and grandmotherly and everyone adored her.

Our kindergarten building was very modern — a free-standing hexagonal with ceiling to floor windows that bathed the classroom in a divine brilliance. There was a long wooden pew along one wall. We entered the room via an alcove in the back where we kept our little cardboard “ports”, short for portmanteau. I always thought my port was sunflower yellow, but my memories are as pliable as Plasticine. My brother, whose recall has more conviction than mine, says the yellow port belonged to my sister. My own port was mud brown and not worth remembering.

I used to sit on my port at the bus stop before school, awaiting my turn at hopscotch…