Thread: life in OZ

Here is my attempt at dissecting the dark underbelly of melbourne

Introduction

I met the most amazing young woman whilst in my second year teaching. This young woman was just 8 years old when I first spoke with her, but she seemed far wise beyond her age. She didn’t play with the other kids; instead she would read a book in the shade of a tree. She was quite intriguing. I wasn’t the only teacher to think so. Within a week of her enrolment, she was the talk of the tearoom. Ms. Wood, the music teacher, said this young girl enjoyed music immensely. So much so she saw the young girl smile brightly, something I am yet to see. Yes, there was something about Mikayla Krieg from the day she floated into the school reception.
It was funny, after 6 months of having Mikayla in my class; she still showed no signs of childlike behavior or state of mind. She often had no lunch, and dirty clothes, but she wasn’t dirty herself. Her nails clean and long, her teeth white and her skin pale and clear, with a few freckles sprinkled over her tiny nose. Her blonde hair was always tied back, neatly. Mikayla always looked one in the eye when she would speak. She would often form an opinion whilst listening in class, then quietly put it forth to the class. Her vocabulary often confused the other children, but I was too far captured by the tiny voice of this tiny adult.
It was the grade two when Mikayla started at the school. The Western Central Junior School, was prep to year 8. Mikayla stayed until year 8 too, I was her teacher in year 7 and year 8 also. She never really liked me much I didn’t think, but that was because I hassled her. I wanted her to write. And sing. When she was in just grade four, Mr. Murphy, the creative arts co coordinator came to me and told me of the prodigy writer and singer withheld in Mikayla. I wasn’t convinced, since seeing no prior evidence and doubting Mikayla could bring the tiny voice to tune.
I convinced her grade four teacher to introduce compulsory journals into the English program. This was for all the students and random journal checks were to be undertaken to ensure it was done. It was Mikayla’s journal that interested me most of all. There was no criteria’s except that there must be a journal entry once daily. After three months I was handed a photocopy of a poem.
“ I shouldn’t have done this but you have to read this.” Mr. Murodoch said handing me the page.
It read:
The wind outside rattles my home
The ice inside, freezes my bones
With a thousand fires left to burn
And a million lesson left to learn
Of the teaching to be alone
And the ability to hold my own
To fight the flight in which I crave
And prove to you I’m brave
You’re so close, yet so far away
You don’t know that much anyway
Don’t fly away with the winds, you try
And so I’ll put you to bed early tonight
I want to play amongst the clouds
But don’t be child! It’s not allowed
Do the dishes; put the clothes on the line!
How long will this life waste my time?
Every time you called, I came
But still every time I’m to blame
So why do I have to steal from gran
Coz my junky mother said I can
How much will your friends give you today?
Do you really need that shit anyway?!
Do you love your drugs more than me, mum?
Are you better to them coz their more fun?
Such a good woman put to waste
Sacrificing all you’ve got, for your next taste.

I almost choked when reading this, I went running to ladies’ for the biggest teary. I couldn’t believe this was coming from a ten year old girl. I kept the poem, and went to class. I had no chance to reach out to Mikayla until she was in my class in year 7. I had 25 students to teach, but it was all circulating around this 13 year old girl. Now quite developed, wearing make up already and I had often thought I’d seen her smoking on her way to school. I was anticipating the amazing writing she would be producing secretly. When reflecting on her work in just grade four, I was almost impatient. Mikayla made me wait too, wait and wait and wait and nothing. At the half year mark I called her mother in for a parent-teacher interview. She failed to show on three occasions and on the fourth, it was only to get Mikayla from school half way during the day. An act which became quite regular as Mikayla got older. Fran Krieg was a regular face at the school of lunchtime; Mikayla would roll her eyes, and slowly walk towards her mother, keeping her head as low as possible. After a brief conversation, Mikayla would always walk out of the school with her mother. She would not return often for days.
I asked the entire class to write about themselves, a piece that captured their current lives in it’s entirety, then we shall place these into a time capsule.
Mikayla outright refused. She refused for 7 months. But as she realized that I was to be her year 8 teacher also, she finally came around. Under strict agreement of course. Anything written is not to be read under any circumstances without the permission of Mikayla Krieg. Towards the end of the year, Mikayla started to not show up as school as much. One day she didn’t come and that was it, she just never came back. Until one afternoon, I looked up to see her standing at the door of the year eight classroom. She looked as though in the two months which she hadn’t come to school she had aged ten years. She took nearly the whole year but then she handed me a black hardcover book, with the words **** OFF written in whiteout across the front and a red ribbon knotted heavily around the book.
“ If I come back here and that ribbon isn’t on there with exactly 27 knots on it, I’ll come after you Ms. Hamill. I mean it, my soul is in there, if you rob it, I won’t hold back you know. Teacher or not.” Then she stalked out of the classroom, peeved off as though I’ve already read it. I still haven’t but tonight as I after speaking with Mrs. Wood, I think it has to be done.


To be continued..

just that everyone is so quick to point out the bad side of other countries thought I would give you a different perspective anyway there is more to come in this tragic tale of sub existence I hope!!

Think Jim Carrol, think Arthur Rimbaud, think Jean Michel-Basquiat. Candles that all burned early but burned with a searing brightness.
Two flamed out and one crashed at speed. Byron had a club foot and Maugham had a stutter, what made them all want to soar in those fathomless blue skies beyond the corporeal trappings?

Ah! I'm fed up: -- But, dear Satan, a less fiery eye I beg you! And while awaiting a few small infamies in arrears, you who love the absence of the instructive or descriptive faculty in a writer, for you let me tear out these few, hideous pages from my notebook of one of the damned.