Teachers Often Treated Us Like We Were Soldiers In The Making
It was wrong, but we developed resilience, that innate trait many kids don’t have today
I looked at my wonky picture frame. The molding was off. Lopsided. It was never going to hold a photo. I sighed in frustration as I realized the wooden strips were uneven and the sides were cut wrong.
I’ll just have to re-make the whole damn thing, I thought.
My classmate whispered something and we giggled when she saw my crooked handiwork. Then she showed me her frame, and we burst into laughter. We tried to keep it down so as not to disturb the class. But our laugh was hearty — from the core.
Her frame also looked askew.
“Enough is enough,” the teacher yelled as he launched a timber block towards me. It happened so fast. I managed to duck down to avoid the impact, but the chunk hit me in the shoulder and landed on the desk beside my flimsy picture frame.
The class froze for a moment. We looked at the teacher in shock, who proceeded with the lesson as if nothing happened.
It was just another school day in the 80s.
No one threatened with legal action, and my parents didn’t turn up in school with a baseball bat to teach the teacher a lesson.
Not even when things got physical, and my PE teacher hit me on the head with the whistle that seemed to be permanently stuck to her left index finger.
And almost etched into my skull.
All because we discussed our height in line with my friend, showing growth after the summer holidays.
Oh boy. Turns out a tiny, metal whistle can be incredibly painful in a physical and emotional sense, belittling even.
Yet, no one ever doubted the efficacy or the necessity of such disciplinary methods.
Until decades later.
No one was worried about kids’ mental health in the 80s or about anyone’s mental health for that matter. And if you were a child like me in that era, in a country like mine (Hungary), all you had to do was listen to the adults and behave.
Even when you were unfairly treated, which, let’s be honest, was a common occurrence.
Yet, we were as happy as kids could be. When life threw us lemons — or wooden blocks — we took it in our stride and got on with life. How is that for lemonade?
That’s not to say, that life was perfect.
We did have our fair share of worries over school, friendships, grades, and boyfriends. But I don’t remember any of us suffering from anxiety or depression.
Today, one in five children is likely to suffer from a mental disorder, despite their families protecting them with invisible bubble wrap.
Some kids can’t leave their houses for fear of their indiscernible phantoms. Some have thoughts that require therapy. They’re encouraged, counselled, and listened to, but is that enough?
They’re labelled with letters that I struggle to keep up with and have gender identities that require a Google search to understand. I’m confused.
What did we have in the 80s that the kids don’t have today?
When we were fourteen, the school took us harvesting.
Not to Legoland.
Not to Cadbury Chocolate World.
Grape harvesting.
We never questioned the ethical side of it, the “the kids working their butts off without getting paid” part. Not even at least an apprentice wage. We saw this as an opportunity to skip school for a week.
Typical kids, that’s what we were.
So we got up early in the morning, and a bus took us to the grapevine, equipped with pruners, buckets, and each other for company.
I still remember the chill in the air as we got off the bus and the despair I felt at the thought of the long day of harvesting ahead.
But we did it — mostly without complaining and without enough potable water at hand.
We got an extra water supply at lunchtime or in the afternoon. The timing of the truck was uncertain. Some days, it was so late that we wondered if dying of thirst in the Gobi Desert felt the same.
“You’ll be fine,” the teachers told us as we gaped at them like fish stranded on a sandy beach. And somehow, we believed them.
We carried on cutting the canes off the trunk while dreaming of the lifesaving drink gushing down our throats until we heard the engine roar at the end of the vineyard.
Relief.
Then the pruner stopped mid-air, and we raced to the water tank like we were the last survivors in a catastrophe-stricken land and our first aid supplies had just arrived.
It was far from ideal, but I’m fond of the memories — the back pain from hours of crouching, the fullness of eating tonnes of unwashed grapes, and even the blanket in the dormitory that smelt of must.
It’s all part of this story.
We didn’t know it then, but harvesting taught us more than one valuable lesson.
More than a visit to Legoland could ever have.
One being the most important, embracing discomfort and pushing straight through it.
Just like we push through work, relationships, and most areas of life.
So it seems that our free one week labour was the price we paid for the lesson.
Today many kids suffer from anxiety, depression, or other mental health issues.
Is it Tik-Tok? Group chats? Bullying? Or the constant comparison games? Is it the wrong messages consumed from the Ether in abundance?
Or is it the liberal way we bring up our children, thinking we’re doing them a favour?
But are we?
One day, I received an email from my son’s school containing information that would’ve broken my heart if it had been about my child. Students had posted unflattering pictures of a boy in a group chat and added shaming comments.
“We don’t tolerate such behaviour,” the email said, and the headmaster promised to take action. What action? We were never told. And it didn’t matter.
Because the damage was done, and the child was publicly ridiculed.
Turns out, their anxiety is well-founded and in some cases triggered by their peers.
We live in a crazy world where teachers now compete with devices for attention and are no longer seen as respected authority figures.
This is not how it should be.
I cried when the PE teacher hit me, but the physical hurt had nothing to do with my tears. It was the humiliation I felt in front of the class, even if my case wasn’t unique.
It was the old-fashioned way to demand respect. Harsh and wrong as it was, it did achieve the desired effect.
I look at the children today, and my heart goes out to them. I wish their childhood was as “cruel “ as mine. Without an iPhone, Snapchat — just a pruner and a bucket.
I fear that’s a thing of the past.
I went for a walk earlier, thinking how best I could finish this post. The fresh air always clears my mind. And as I strolled past a large field, I spotted a group of older teenagers playing cricket. There were no adults, I checked. It didn’t look like a sports event.
The teens voluntarily chose an outdoor game in the sun over aimless scrolling on social media, smoking weed, or listening to online gurus about what makes a good life. They cheered as one of them hit the ball and ran.
The field echoed their laughter.
I slowed down to take in the moment, and time rewound to right where this story started — my childhood.
I reminisced about my school days and the teachers who often treated us like we were soldiers in the making. Unbeknownst to them they made us stronger adults.
Perhaps youngsters would benefit from a stricter school system where teachers have a voice and permission to discipline. Or maybe harvesting should be introduced again, so children could experience the feel-good factor of physical work.
I don’t have the answers; social evolution is beyond what any of us can control.
What I do have is the resilience I gained from the tough love of teachers and society.
Although, I could’ve done without the wooden block and the whistle.
