The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom

by Tracy Engelbrecht

  Nobody in sight. God! Oh God, where have they taken him? It’s crazy how many thoughts can go through your head in ten seconds.

  Then I heard it – the sound of Steven (and a dozen other children) crying inconsolably. I followed the sound to the lunchroom, which was in chaos. Miss Timid was holding Steven and absently jiggling him on her hip, while trying to conom,rying ttrol twenty other, sobbing, fighting, food-throwing darlings. I was shocked. Surely, this wasn’t how it’s supposed to be?

  I should have taken him away, there and then, never to come back. He seemed traumatised the whole afternoon and didn’t want to talk about his day. I wanted to hear about sandpits and finger painting and story circles. I needed to hear that he was okay, that I hadn’t made a dreadful mistake. Instead, I realised he’d spent the whole day crying in the corner. He hated me for abandoning him, I just knew it.

  The second day was much, much worse. He knew what would happen when I said goodbye. I felt like the worst mother in the world, peeling him off me and walking away. Jeez. I must have been loony. I wish I could be one of those bossy, overbearing parents who pushed everyone around and annoy teachers with their demands. I’m just too nice, too much of a wuss.

  Only much later did I come to know what the teachers there were really like and how they’d lied straight to my face when telling me how the school was run. Christian values, indeed. They seemed to favour all the best bits of the Old Testament, if you ask me. Lots of sparing-the-rod-and-spoiling-the-child type advice.

  The school was run by Tweedle-Dumb, the principal, and her best friend, Tweedle-Dumber. Both were nasty, small-minded and ignorant, with a pair of giant egos to match. Neither seemed to like children much. But boy, could they act! Academy Awards all round for their roles as caring, intelligent human beings.

  Miss Timid was a bit of an outsider. She was sweeter than the two Tweedles, who ganged up on her. Much later, I heard them undermining her in front of the children and complaining about her to the parents. In the early days, of course, I didn’t know any of this. I was completely fooled. I thought they cared. I confided in them about My Situation. They seemed sympathetic and asked a lot of questions. Including, of course, “Where is his father?” I believed they were interested and concerned for Steven. I didn’t realise I was only giving them ammunition.

  I’d been told that Steven would settle in and get used to the routine soon enough. He never did. He cried every morning for months. So did I. At home. At the school. At first the Evil Twins seemed kind and patient. They said they understood how hard it was for me to see him sad. But, they said, I wasn’t to worry. They could handle him and he was fine, really.

  “He stops crying as soon as you leave,” Tweedle-Dumb kept telling me. Bullshit. She was just saying it to shut me up. After a while, her patience began to wear thin and she started using words like Manipulation, Firm Hand, Spoilt.

  The brainwashing commenced. They managed to convince me that Steven was the problem – that he was playing me, just being naughty. And, dammit, I believed them. They were the teachers, after all. I was just, well, a little girl. It’s ridiculous the way I always buckle to any sort he to any of authority figure. All it took was a sharp word in a firm voice, and I’d be doubting myself, bending over backwards to be the good girl. I put my child through trauma, because somebody with an opinion and a loud voice told me I should. I wish I could say I’m different now, but nah… I’d be lying. Great, big, giant chicken – that’s what I am. Cluck, cluck.

  Steven never misbehaved at school. He tried hard to do as he was told, to fit in. He was a quiet boy, quick to learn, but shy and reluctant to participate in group activities. They tried to force him, and he hated it. The more he cried, the harsher they became. They simply didn’t like him.

  Mom had warned me. She hated the place and we fought about it often. She thought I was being cruel, and I told her she was being too soft. I’m sorry, Ma. You were right. I should have listened. All my instincts told me I was crazy. But no, I was determined to see it through. If I gave up now and took him out of the school, what kind of spineless mother was I?

  My heart said, “I know my son. He’s a good boy. He would only behave this way if he was really unhappy.”

  My head said, “What do you know? You’re a lousy teenage mother. Shut up and listen.”

  All the other children seemed fine. Only my child had a problem. It was a horrible thought – had I been bringing him up wrong all along? Had I really been spoiling him, as the teachers had been telling me? Maybe this was my fault, and what he needed was a stronger, stricter mother. How had I managed to get it all so wrong, when I’d been trying so hard to get it right?

  The crazy Tweedles really messed with my head. They complained if he cried, if I picked him up, if I hugged him for too long or carried his suitcase. They bitched when he started writing his name, telling me I was pushing him and that he was doing it wrong anyway. They didn’t want to hear about how he shone, about his interests or achievements. They didn’t know him, and they didn’t care. He didn’t conform, and so he was wrong.

  The pair of them took insincerity to a whole new level. In public, they preached God’s love and how good it was to be saved. With a straight face. In private, they passed malicious comments about the children in their care, talked down to them, completely failed to understand them.

  They were racist snobs. Tweedle-Dumber, about one of the families: “They’re not actually that bad… for coloureds.” Lovely. They started many sentences with, “I’m not a racist, but…”

  When you hear those words, look out for white sheets and the lynching tree – they’re never far behind. They thought they were the world’s greatest mothers, while their own children were some of the most unlikeable kids I’ve ever met.

  ight="0" width="48">Two-faced doesn’t even begin to describe them. And it was their tone of voice that confused me. I believed it all, because they sounded so sweet and sincere. They could make the most humiliating insult seem like heartfelt advice from a caring friend. God, I fell for it all. I’m so sorry about that now. I put Steven through nearly two years of hell, because I was too naive to realise that some people are just mean.

  When I heard they were studying Early Childhood Education (yeah, turns out neither of them was actually qualified as a teacher, at all), I decided I’d love to do it too. I enjoyed seeing Steven learn, it was exciting to watch him soak it all up. And I really loved spending time with him and other children his age. Teaching seemed like a good fit for me. I joined them on their course, and I did well. Really well, in fact. I aced my exams and my projects were great. The Ugly Stepsisters didn’t like that one bit.

  After receiving one of our projects back, Tweedle-Dumb said, “How could you get ninety percent? Ours are so much better. I mean, just look at it. I’d never give you ninety percent for that work. The lecturer doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  Their blatant rudeness hurt me, but I tried to ignore it. They sulked and sniped, and I stopped telling them how I was doing. I couldn’t believe that grown women could be so petty and jealous. Of me. It’s really funny.

  I don’t know what possessed them, but once we’d finished studying, they offered me a teaching job. They’d managed to get rid of Miss Timid somehow, and took great delight in telling everybody what a terrible job she had done. I should have run a mile. I must have been stupid to think they wouldn’t do the same to me. But I believed I was in no position to turn down a job, and nearly a year of listening to them had fucked up my judgment solidly, anyway. So I said yes, and I was excited.

  I thought it would be perfect. Doing what I loved, getting paid for it (very poorly), and being with Steven all day. It didn’t get any better than that. I was nervous, but motivated. I went in there with my beautiful theme posters and my weekly lesson plans straight out of the textbook, determined to be a better teacher than they were.

  My first day was a disaster. It started off well enough, but descended into blood-spattered pandemo
nium. The morning went smoothly. Aunty Tracy (yep, the others had to make space for the new persona in my head) turned up and took control. She had a firm, teacherly voice, and she gave lots of hugs. The children liked me, I thought.

  I was in charge of the little ones, some of them still in nappies. It was hard work – physically strenuous and emotionally draining. Besides flash cards and pencil grip correction, I did a fair bit of mopping up. Drool, poo, tears and red Mix-a-drink went everywhere. The job entailed crowd control, mostly, but we had fun. We sang songs, we did art, I taught shapes and colours, managing to get through the mornistlgh the ng without killing anybody or inadvertently scarring them for life. I was encouraged – I could do this. I felt so good. Exhausted and sticky, but proud.

  After lunch, everything turned to porridge. I was told to take the younger aftercare kids to the park up the road. There were about twelve of them. They lined up at the gate in pairs, and after ten minutes of lecturing them on road safety, we set off. In hindsight, I think it was a terrible idea to place the responsibility of a dozen two- to four-year-olds on the shoulders of a rookie on her first day – and off the premises, too. Actually, it’s a terrible idea to have anybody do that alone. But Tweedle-Dumber told me they did it every day and it would be a doddle, so off we went.

  All was okay at first. We played a few games designed to tire them out, and then I let them go off to play on the swings and jungle gym. I needed eyes at the back of my head. They were everywhere, and they were loud. Terrified to lose somebody, I counted them constantly. I was refereeing an altercation between two small girls, when I heard a blood-curdling yell from the jungle gym. Little Christopher was lying on the ground screaming his head off. My knees went weak as I ran up to him and saw the blood pouring from his head. He had slipped off the jungle gym and had cut his forehead on a metal bar. To this day I can’t stand looking at those monstrous death traps – I get heart palpitations whenever I see children playing on them.

  Somehow, I managed to round up the scattered kids, grabbed Christopher and ran back to the school. I tried to hide the blood and my panic from the other children, but inside I was freaking out. Fuck, fuck, I’m going to get fired on my first day! Oh my God, what if he’s brain-damaged. What am I going to tell his mother? Help, help, help! I’ve killed a child! Who the hell left me in charge? Are they crazy?

  The thirty-second journey back to the school seemed to take forever. At last we arrived, thank God, without losing anybody along the way. I burst into the classroom and thrust Christopher into Tweedle Dumb’s arms before breaking down. Through heaving sobs and hysterical apologies, I tried to explain. It took hours and litres of sugar water to calm down. I think I was more traumatised than poor little Christopher, whose mother arrived to take him to hospital. All stitched up, he was back at school the next day, proud of his battle scars. So, my first day as a teacher was also my worst experience as a teacher. I literally scarred a little boy.

  I still had a job, though I would have given anything to never go back there again. But I did, and it did get better. I loved my kiddies and enjoyed seeing them grow and learn, knowing I was helping them.

  I resisted all the Tweedles’ attempts to convert me to happy-clappydom, but I took perverse pleasure in their irritation at my blank stares as they tried to convince me that I needed Jesus in my life. I would smile and nod, listen intently, then go on my merry, heathen way. I loved to piss them off by leaving Hare Krishna literature out on my desk for them to see. Aneurysms all round. Hilarious. They made my life hell, so I had to take my entertainment where I could find it.

  After eighteen months, I had to leave – or run the risk of losing my mind, not to mention my natural aversion to inflicting grievous bodily harm. Steven was miserable, I was miserable, the money sucked. They were offended at my reasons for leaving – namely disapproval of their draconian teaching methods and their shite personalities, but I gritted my teeth and got through my notice period with my sanity just barely intact.

  Steven thrived at his new school. It was astonishing to see the difference in his behaviour. Although he always remained shy and sensitive, the relaxed, caring environment did wonders for his confidence.

  But while Steven was okay, I was, of course, jobless. Interview after interview for preschool teaching jobs followed, but all were far from home, with rotten pay. Taking any of those would have meant that I’d pay out of my own pocket for the privilege of wiping up snot ten hours a day. Not worth it.

  Sad, but one must move on. And I was moving on in more ways than one. After three years together, James and I broke up. I suppose we’d drifted apart, as they say. We’d both grown up and changed, and although we cared about each other, it was the idea of each other that we’d been in love with.

  Ours was a protracted, ugly, on-again, off-again break-up that went on for months. He loved my long hair. I cut it short. He hated my hairdresser. I dated him.

  Getting over James took time – for years afterwards, my stomach still did that sick little ex-boyfriend-looking-happy-without-me lurch whenever I saw him. At the time, the idea of not being with him was foreign and painful. It also meant I had to abandon, for now, our shared dream of a white picket fence and a happy little family. Worst of all, Steven was losing the only dad he’d ever known.

  But the question I had to ask myself was this: Was it James I wanted, or was it what he represented for me? Horrible as it is, I think I know the answer.

  Chapter Nine

  In which she drives the process, while remembering The Boys She’s Done Before

  Being an unemployed single mother is no fun, let me tell you. Neither is being a single mother employed by nutters. I had to do something about getting a new job thatl ynew job paid actual money. Preferably with a boss in possession of all his marbles. Wishful thinking? Well, yes. Since my teaching days, my bosses have seemed progressively marble deficient.

  Teaching clearly wasn’t going to work. My teacher’s salary was so miniscule as to be embarrassing, on top of which I had to buy all my own teaching materials. When I left, I had a year’s supply of empty cardboard egg cartons and no use for them. There are only so many piggy-masks a child wants to make before getting bored.

  It was time to get real. I decided to do a short computer and secretarial course, and to embark on a stellar career in paper shuffling. For some weird reason, people are far more willing to pay proper money to women who type arb memos all day than to the ladies who look after their children.

  I looked forward to a change and thought an office job might be cool. I almost imagined for a second that I could be a dynamic, driven career woman like you see on TV, balancing work and motherhood with consummate ease and sexy hair. Theme tunes from eighties movies played constantly in my head… Working 9 to 5 and so on. Good grief. I was so dof.

  So I learnt how to drive a computer, how to type with more than two fingers (The quick brown dog jumped over the lazy fox – or was it the other way around?), how to make tea for the boss, how to do petty cash. When I thought of the real difference I’d made teaching, the meaninglessness of this new life grated me. But I was good at it without having to try too hard. I was organised and methodical (OCD can come in handy). The sane, sensible columns of numbers calmed me, soothed my frazzled nerves, as did purchase orders in triplicate and colour-coded filing systems. Sensible Tracy was as happy as a pig in shit.

  Less than I’d aspired to for my life, but at least I knew I could handle an office job without making anybody bleed, except in gratifying daydreams where I’d shove the boss’s head through a plate glass window. This and other lovely fantasies have kept me sane; there’s nothing like contemplating bloody murder to bring a smile to your face on days when it seems everybody around you has eaten a bowl of stupid for breakfast. It works.

  I passed my course well and a month after graduation I started my first job as a receptionist at a labour broking office. Reception work probably wasn’t the best fit for me – a basic requirement is a bubbly, People
Person type personality, something that is lacking in my make-up. Other qualities required for this particular position (which I also lacked) were the ability to swear loudly at people in four languages, martial arts training and Zen-like patience. A fuck you attitude in general would have been helpful. I didn’t know this at the time. I was under the mistaken impression that working hard and being helpful would be enough. Even though the idea of talking to people (even friendly, happy ones) for eight hours a day – and smiling while doing so – made my stomach hurt. Still, beggars can’t be choosers and I was grateful for the chance to start somewhere.

  My illusions were soon shattered. My job was a far cry from what I’d imagined. It was about as glamorous as answering the phone at an Epping panel-beater – just a tiny step up from a stuffy prefab, decorated with tattered Scope pin-ups circa 1987. I’d pictured a new wardrobe filled with pastel shift dresses and coordinating accessories. I’d looked forward to lively boardroom meetings and sociable office camaraderie. Recognition for a job well done. Awe at my astonishing filing prowess. Record-breaking rise through the ranks to be promoted within months to head of Staple Procurement or something. Stuff like that.

  What I got was an uncomfortable desk in a freezing cold hallway (on a raised platform, so that anybody standing in front of the desk could see right up my skirt, or up my jacksie, as one male colleague so eloquently put it), office politics so cut-throat it was a wonder anybody was left alive, a clunky old switchboard that nobody explained to me, and staff members who refused to take calls for weeks on end. I was the last frontier (or first line of defence, depending on how you chose to look at it) between enraged contract workers who hadn’t been paid in six weeks and grumpy wage clerks who refused to come out of their holes to help resolve problems of their making.