Читать книгу Shéri - Shéri Brynard - Страница 6

“Who is the greatest perfectionist in our family?” I once asked my mother. “Dad!” she answered without hesitating.

My father’s extreme perfectionism was evident even after his death, when my mother had to look through his filing cabinet in search of funeral and other policies. She could hardly see through her tears. But when she pulled out the drawer, everything she needed was there, almost as if my father had known that something terrible was going to happen at the Augrabies Falls and that my grief-stricken mother wouldn’t be thinking clearly.

I find comfort in the ordinary routine of my life and I flourish when everything is properly structured.

My mother’s sense of order is clear from all the albums and files that she meticulously keeps up to date. Also at her office at the university. She likes clean curtains and framed photographs. She cannot stand it when the curtains are covered with dust after a wind storm in the dry winter months.

In her office (and in her life), every single thing has its place, even my pillow and blanket for when I am unwell. While she is lecturing or marking student papers, I lie on the carpet behind or in front of her desk.

In photographs of my grandmother, Sarie, I notice that her hair always looked smart. When she was getting on in years, her grey hair was neatly waved, like that of the women in paintings by the old masters in museums overseas. My sisters and I liked to take photographs of her, posing with us for yet another one.

Photographs portray moments in time, my mother says. The ones with Granny Sarie tell of many beautiful moments. I remember my granny’s softness, her clean smell.

I always made sure that I sat close to her. But after photo sessions like these, she often had to use oxygen. She suffered from emphysema for 30 years, and during the ten years before her death she had to use oxygen constantly.

She carried her illness with grace. She never uttered a negative word about it. Even during this time, my granny would always ask: “Does my hair look tidy?” And: “Oh no, just look at all these brown spots on my hands!”

I think I had the same idea about both my father and Granny Sarie: that other people die and are buried, but not my dad or Granny Sarie. The two of them, I thought, would never die.

Many people like routine and structure. It helps to make new places and new things seem less daunting. They like it when promises are kept. An orderly structure makes them feel safe. But I want even more than this kind of order.

In our house my dad was the middle finger, because he was tall and (sometimes) slim and as handsome as can be. In his forties, he became even better looking after he got rid of his moustache and bought a very classy pair of glasses. So, in our family of five, Dad was the middle finger, Mom the index finger, Zettie the little finger, Marisa the slightly longer one – between the little finger and the middle finger – and I am the thumb, who can’t stand soil under my nails.

I like my nails to look neat.

I wipe crumbs from the school children’s mouths. I also wipe their noses, if they cannot do it themselves, but luckily most of them can.

Actually, I’m quite a bit like my mother. She’s taught me to pick up anything that is lying around and to put it where it belongs. These days I teach the school kids the same thing. But sometimes I pretend not to see that my room is not clean and orderly!

Some of the school children call me Shéri, but some of them address me the same way they do Mr Hugo, the school principal, or the other teachers. Many of them cannot talk; they make sounds or touch my arm and look right into my heart, past my eyes.

I have known Mr Dawie Hugo, our principal at Lettie Fouché School in Bloemfontein, for years and years. He was the one who gave permission for my parents to enrol me at Martie du Plessis School. Until then I had attended Lettie Fouché, the school for mentally challenged children, where I now work.

When Mr Hugo was appointed principal of this school, things really changed for the better. When I was still in the baby class, the teachers repeated things over and over, trying to teach us, but some of the kids never even managed to count from one to ten or eat with a knife and fork.

Some of them repeatedly hit their heads against a wall. The teachers and assistants would take them away, only for them to go back and do it again. I tried it and it was quite fun. When I started doing that at home, my mother scolded me, so I’d slip away and do it against other walls. This was when my mother started making other plans.

She dressed me like a little princess, tied my hair in cute ponytails and took me to Martie du Plessis School, where children had to have a normal IQ, but had to cope with other challenges like dyslexia or some physical disability. “Our child,” she pleaded in the principal’s office, “needs more stimulation. We will do our part. Please …”

The answer was no.

Children with Down Syndrome would never cope with the normal curriculum. The children at his school were not intellectually challenged; they merely had special needs. A child like me, my mother heard, would give the school a bad name.

My mother did not take no for an answer. “Shéri has special needs,” she said. “These needs cannot be met where she is now.”

Giving up does not exist in my mother’s head or vocabulary.

One day, after many prayers in our home, the principal unexpectedly phoned my mother about me.

She took me back to the school, but this time she didn’t do anything special to my hair or the shoes or the dress I wore. I looked quite Down Syndrome-ish.

She told Mr Hugo, then the deputy principal, she would do her best to ensure that I did what normal children did. She would make sure that I did my homework.

“Our multidisciplinary team has agreed to test her,” he said.

My mother wanted to know whether she should stay. If so, she’d put in leave at the office.

“Not necessary,” Mr Hugo said with a broad smile. “Shéri will come here for three days and spend time with the teachers, the occupational therapist, physiotherapist, our school psychologist and other kids of her age. Just drop her off. And don’t forget to pack her something nice for lunch.”

My mother was told that they would be giving me IQ and cognitive tests, to determine whether I would cope emotionally.

I could not get enough of the tests. There were puzzles and blocks, all sorts of things to count, forms to identify, like triangles, squares and circles. I had to colour in pictures and finish sentences. Nothing was repeated over and over again.

The children in that school really worked hard. I heard class groups singing and saw children walking in lines from one classroom to the next. I counted and drew pictures and talked, and time passed far too quickly.

That school felt like my kind of place. Break was wonderful. The teachers took me to sit with the other children. And yes, I did look at what they had in their lunchboxes! There were peanut butter and cheese sandwiches, drinking yoghurt, chicken legs, small fruit juices, packets of chips, pink and green Fizzers, even fizzy cool drinks. I had a sandwich, a piece of fruit and a small fruit juice in my lunchbox. Not a single sweet, no chips.

Every day my mother was worried that I might not behave myself.

Once all the tests had been done and my results had been interpreted, my mom and dad received the news that I had been accepted as a learner at Martie du Plessis, as part of the nursery group.

“Your little girl worked as though her life depended on it,” one of the teachers apparently told my parents. “She worked her way into this school!”

But I really enjoyed it. Only later did I start to realise that I would have to work as if my life depended on it everywhere and always. That only one time out of ten I’d be able to say: “Now that was easy!”

Nowadays, as a teaching assistant at Lettie Fouché school helping kids with writing and reading, I know and realise that nothing feels easy for them. But we persevere. I have to, they have to. Because when you’re slow, you have to give it your all. You have to soldier on and on, until people start realising that you too have a place in society, where you mean something to other people. You have to work harder than other people and not lose hope.

When I teach the children the correct way to hold a pencil, I notice how hard they have to work, how sometimes they do lose hope. But we cannot be satisfied with second best or almost right. We have to carry on, until they succeed.

This is what my mother expected of me, so that I could go to Martie du Plessis. She sometimes had to help me get dressed; I could really take my time getting ready.

The school bus picked me up at about quarter to six, when my dad was still snuggled up in bed. I had to be good, walk straight into my class, greet my teacher and finish the pictures that I had to draw, my mom said.

She made a long list of rules. I was not allowed to ask other kids for sweets or biscuits and under no circumstances take anything from anyone’s lunchbox. Even if I really wanted to taste it, even if I was craving it. I had to eat my own sandwiches and fruit.

I had to make sure that I didn’t lose my white sandals; I had to look people in the eye and listen to my teacher from the minute I walked into the classroom until I left at the end of the day.

At home, around our dining-room table, I had to learn to look whether anyone needed anything: salt, sugar, milk, salad. Normal, well-behaved children are considerate and disciplined, my mother and father used to say.

I really liked my teacher and my classmates: the little boy with the glasses which looked like my dad’s binoculars, the little girls who dressed so beautifully. Four of the kids were in wheelchairs and one of them always wore red shoes. My teacher, whom we called Juffrou Hester, chatted happily with us, also in Southern Sotho.

In our classroom were books about cars and animals and Spot the puppy, a big doll with hair that we could comb, a workbench with hammers and other tools, a toy ironing board and a doll’s house. Outside there were bridges made of old tyres that crossed rivers full of crocodiles. You had to walk very carefully, one by one, or you could cross together, because the crocodiles were only make-believe.

My teacher said she was so proud of me after I’d finished the very first nursery street mile on 11 April 1986. I was four years old. She asked me how I did it; a street mile is long. I told her that I just carried on, that was all. And I did it in my new white tackies.