Every word uttered by her, every scrap of knowledge she imparted, I lapped up as if it was mother’s milk.
One day she introduced us to the concept of origin. “All you see around you in this class-room,” she declared, “has been something else before.” Now, as we pointed out different things to her, she would explain how they had started out.
A lot of pointing ensued: This desk, we learnt, had once been a tree growing in the forest… just like the copy-book… That school-bag was made from the hide of a cow… the sweater had been knitted from sheep’s wool… And so on.
Thankful for an opportunity to clarify the background of an object that had long mystified me, I pointed to the bakelite electric socket.
The teacher blanched. For a moment she seemed at a loss for words. Then she composed herself and said, in a loud didactic voice: “That socket used to be… er… er… It’s imported. That’s it. From Africa. It grows there, on a very rare bush. Next, please.”
From that moment I have never trusted authority.
“Perhaps it is the way God intended it,” sighed the mother of two teenage boys, half in jest. “To make your little darlings so obnoxious that it will be a relief, not a tragedy, to see them flee the nest.”
Lowering her voice confidentially, she added: “Sometimes I feel as if I can’t take another day of living with so much opposition… ungraciousness… rudeness…”
I tried to cheer her up by quoting the old Oriental wisdom that it is from those who give us most trouble that we stand to learn the most.
“Oh yes,” she retorted cynically. “I’ve learnt my lesson. How not to bring up children. I’ve been far too nice to them.”
The teenage conflicts that erupt in most healthy families should not be taken lightly or ignored as a passing , as the established parent/child positions become outgrown.
Whether it’s long harboured childhood grievances finally surfacing, or a straight-forward need for adult autonomy, teenage rebellion is a signal that an entirely new bond has to be forged.
As in all personal clashes, only mutual respect will achieve it. Keep in mind that the way you handle this passage will determine your future relationship with the adult son or daughter.
In a public ward my bed was placed opposite two teenagers hospitalized for a different reason. A precarious friendship seemed to have developed between the two.
One evening the younger one broke down and wept bitterly.
“I never wanted this,” she sobbed. “It was Mum and Dad made me. And then Daniel… Daniel said he’d never speak to me again if I didn’t do it.”
“Come on,” sneered the older girl disdainfully. “You wouldn’t want a snotty brat on your hands.”
Not much comforted, the grieving girl reached for her mobile phone, having made what sounded like a momentous decision: “I’m going to ring Daniel.”
Her girlish voice resounded, tense and tearful, through the room: “Hi Daniel, it’s me. I feel awful… No one told me it would be like this… It’s as if I done something terrible… something that can never be undone. I don’t know how I shall ever get over it… It’s more than I can cope with…Daniel ? I’m scared.”
While she drew breath listening to Daniel, I think we were all wondering what his response might be. “Oh yeah ” we heard her say. “Cool. Okay, speak to you soon.”
She stared into space, looking very much like the child she was. Her friend got impatient. “What did Daniel say ”
It was a moment before the girl replied: “He said he’d had a haircut.”
