I was six turning seven when I started school. We lived in a little town an hour from the main city Johannesburg. My best friend and I had grown up together, we lived around the corner from each other and we were ‘family friends’. Her name was Angelique and we were best friends forever. Our personalities complimented each other.
In those days we used to walk in a group to school. Even from first grade, we would walk by ourselves without adult supervision. I loved my school. I loved my teacher. I had my friend Angelique and we would run amok and have as much fun as we could. I was the first child to be able to read fluently. So my teacher Mrs Van Wyk used to call on me to help with reading groups. I was really confident. And happy.
The following year my parents decided to move to the city. We left the week after my eighth birthday at the end of April. I started my new school in the middle of the term, was introduced to the class first thing on a Monday morning. I was never able to embrace the new school fully. I was always looking back.
This morning I saw a group on FB. It is a school group of my first school. They celebrated their sixtieth anniversary last year. A couple of people in the group remember Mrs Van Wyk. It seems she really was as nice as I can remember her.
And I realize we scar in our lives. And sometimes time doesn’t quite heal those scars. Even now over thirty years later I find myself looking back. I can enter into those feelings. I wish we hadn’t left. I wish my parents hadn’t removed me. From a place where I was happy and confident to a place where I never quite fitted in.