With apathy masquerading as best intentions I was shipped off to a Catholic school in the nearby town. I doubt I put up too much of a fight. My father, a stern disciplinarian, would have had none of it. He thought the strict environment of a religious institution was just what was needed to help me grow into the best possible version of myself. It is ironic that, to this day, he remains a staunch atheist.
It started as soon as I arrived. I’m not sure why one particular classmate took an instant dislike to me but she did. I was introduced to the class as “Fiona Catrina Maclaren” and by the time I was seated at her table, just seconds later, she had labelled me with a cruel nickname. Derived from the Scottish roots of my name, it haunted me for the four years I spent at that school.
I was ostracised before I’d been given a chance and I quickly became used to my own company. To be honest it was a good lesson to learn, together with developing a heightened sense of danger. I became very good at spotting potential situations that would be better for me to avoid. I would have made a good candidate for ninja school.
It wasn’t until a couple of years later when another new girl started that I made a friend. Angela didn’t need a nickname as she came with her own. Her surname was Burke. “A Burke” and I found comfort in our little bubble of exclusion. We bonded over a love of Adam Ant and swapped tales of authoritarian fathers. She even had me singing in the playground again, though this time around it was “Prince Charming” and “Kids in America”, with ABBA consigned to the bin.
I don’t think about those days often, though I have to say they left their mark. Like a little tattoo somewhere so discreet that only a few would ever get a glimpse.
Through the power of modern technology I am in touch with “A Burke”. I’ve since moved hundreds of miles away whilst she still lives within a stone’s throw of our old stomping ground. Until recently the last I’d heard of my tormentor was that she was at university studying law. I imagined a glorious career as a hard-nosed defence lawyer. The kind that gets the guilty off scot-free.
A recent conversation changed that. An opportunity presented itself for me to nonchalantly enquire about the lawyer during a “Whatever happened to ...” discussion.
“Oh, didn’t you know?” Came the response. “She died of breast cancer in her late twenties.”
It’s hard to know what to feel about news such as this. Fifteen-year old news about someone who shaped my life in the way she did.
But I’ll work it out. I always do. Black Sheep Black sheep, don’t cry Your rainbow will shine In a gentle heart’s presence Black sheep, don’t ask why Walk your path with purpose You weren’t meant to follow the flock Black sheep, fly high Break the chains of judgement Soar above the clouds with your dream Thank you for reading, Fiona Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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