R is for Rope
You’ll
have to bear with me for this one! We will get to the rope bit!
Mrs
Holl was an absolute darling. She taught
needlework at school. It is testament to
her beautiful character that she was even kind and loving to me. I say this because needlework has never, and
will never be a skill that I strive to perfect.
I was actually so bad at needlework at school that it once took me a
whole term to make a shirt. And in fact
I didn’t make it at all.
“Can you help me with this, Mrs Holl?” always worked. Her ‘help’ actually involved her sewing the
whole damn thing. I was the ONLY pupil
to be allowed to do rug making in needlework classes. Rug making.
I loved it. Huge needles and a
woven template and a pattern that you could choose yourself. Most of mine involved ponies.
I was, however, very good at sport. It was a small, private school for
‘gals’ - about 120-150 pupils. There
were only six games ties awarded to pupils who excelled at sports. I was the
proud owner of one of them. Netball was
my speciality (I went on to play county netball in later years).
Bullying was different in those
days – especially in a private school for middle class ‘gals’. We’re not talking physical and we’re not
talking the appalling verbal and cyber bullying that goes on in today’s
schools. But one girl did make my life a
misery. She was very sporty and also
good at netball. I guess she didn’t like the competition. She was always telling me that I was rubbish
and moaned very loudly if I ended up on her team.
I told Mrs Holl about it one day and she
gave me a piece of advice that I have treasured, and practiced, all my life. I so distinctly remember us sitting on the
lovely sloping lawns of the school grounds.
Mrs Holl had a wonderfully quiet voice that was never loud and never
strayed from its calm and measured delivery of words. She asked me if I had ever seen a tug of war
match. I told her that I had. She told
me to picture two teams of equal strength battling back and fore and wearing
themselves out with the effort. I could
picture it. She then asked me to see just
two people. The rope goes one way, and then the other, and then back again. I
could see it. She then asked me to
picture one of the people as me, and the other as the girl who had been
bullying me. I did. She then asked what would happen to my opponent
if I let go of the rope. We giggled
together as I told her that I could picture her falling over in an undignified
manner on her bottom. Bottom, in those
sheltered days, was a rather naughty word so it was doubly funny. Anyway, her advice was to just agree with
everything that the girl said.
About a week later, I ended up on her
netball team side.
“Oh no” she said to me. “You’re rubbish at
netball.”
I remembered Mrs Holl’s words just in time
and said, “Yes I know.” Her face was a picture. No argument to argue, you see. I was standing
up and she was on her bottom. I had ‘let
go of the rope’.
Many years later, I accidentally ended up
teaching 3-11 year olds. When victims of
bullying came to me for comfort and advice, I would always tell them the tug of
war story. I often heard myself in the playground, walking past a couple of
arguing hormonal children (usually girls) and saying, “Stephanie – let go of the rope.”. It always worked!.
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