I wish I could remember more, but I can't. I blame it on trauma of varying degrees rather than my young age. At the time, I was nine years old. This becomes more relevant as the story goes on.
A couple of months into my fifth grade year, our teacher Mrs. Garrison disappeared. Suddenly, she just wasn't there any longer. A few students were recruited and given the task of clearing out and boxing up her plants, books, and personal paraphernalia. We were told, she was very ill and wouldn't be returning that year. She didn't.
She died.
Most of us were a bit young to comprehend the situation and the concept of death. Some of us were apprehensive and of course, as young children usually are, we were quite self absorbed. Who would be educating us now?
Out of nowhere, or somewhere, arrived an elegantly dressed man with an accent which I identified immediately. After all, my parents and many of their friends had the same speech patterns. Mr. Boehlke was our new teacher for the remainder of the year. Although I felt some kinship with him, he seemed disinterested when I announced that I too was born in Deutschland, and could point out where on a map if he wanted to see.
He didn't.
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| My 5th grade class |
When it came time for open house and for parents to meet the replacement, things went a bit differently. Mom and dad quickly discovered that Mr. Boehlke taught Saturday morning German school to second generation immigrants as well as some high school students who needed extra help with a credit. For whatever reason, my parents decided that it would be a good idea for me to join his Saturday class.
I suppose I was excited at first thinking I would somehow be more special by participating in another of Mr. Boehlke's classes. It all unraveled fairly quickly.
On the initial Saturday, dad took me to a school some distance away from our flat in the city. I was then to take a streetcar home with whatever change my parents had allotted me. As I walked into the classroom, I panicked. Everyone there was tall and old, teenager old. I was intimidated and wanted to go home.
I survived class, by attempting to lay low in the back of the room. That was easy. I was young and short. I understood very little of the "high German", and soon came to realize I really didn't want to be there.
Athletics was an important part of this curriculum and after what seemed like an endless two hour language class, we were expected to participate in an hour of gymnastics. Husband and wife, former German olympians would teach us we were told. This did little to assuage this 9 year old's terror at seeing equipment which was much taller than most adults.
The final challenge was to get myself back home. I was somewhere west of where we lived and it was a simple streetcar ride to the Honest Ed's landmark where I needed to exit the vehicle, or so I thought. After sitting in the streetcar for what seemed like an inordinate length of time, I realized something was wrong. Nothing looked familiar. Dad had said, and I remembered his words exactly, "Get on the streetcar. Get off at Honest Ed's. Walk home."
I suppose nobody told me where to get on the streetcar and how to go in the correct direction. Either that, or I didn't listen. I remember being calm and yet terrified. I had no extra cash, I was alone in the city, in unfamiliar territory. Fortunately, I had grabbed a transfer as I entered the vehicle. It was offered to me and it was free. I left, crossed the street, got on another car, and relieved that the driver accepted the transfer, went in the opposite direction. As I passed the school where I had originated, things began to look familiar...relief.
Someone recently asked on facebook, "What's something scary you did as a kid that isn't done nowadays." My answer? Riding the TTC all over the city. I used to take transit everywhere, to Maple Leaf Gardens for events, to the CBC on Jarvis St. to meet dad at work, and more.
Having done those things as a youngster, and having survived, taught me a few things. I believe I became more independent, I learned to adapt to change, and I became a pretty good problem solver.
Despite cell phones and all manner of technology nowadays, who would feel safe letting a nine year old venture out in a city of millions? It's sad really. It was an education in and of itself...an important part of growing up most children are not, could not, and should not be afforded any longer.
The world is a scary place. Or, perhaps it was a scary place back then as well, and because there was no high speed communication, internet, or instantaneous t.v. news reporting, we just didn't know any better.
