Letters from Boarding School Revisited

Farnborough Hill

Since writing about boarding school in the Retreat Reflection, sitting daily with the memories, the emotions, now so close to the surface, I found the courage recently to read the original letters I wrote to my parents as a little girl forty-five years ago. 

The week we spent waiting for Dad to die, in October 2005, is when I found my old letters, organized by year and in date order, knotted in bundles with string, tucked away in a desk drawer. I had the presence of mind to take them home with me, unread. They lingered at the bottom of a carry-on bag for five years, until earlier this year, when the little girl I used to be first started to make herself known. I opened that bag and tore into those neat little bundles. Even as I was reading them, I was separating them from their envelopes, getting them out of chronological order - making a mess of them, in other words. I read several out loud to my husband, who had tears in his eyes for that little Ali who was to become his wife. I didn't cry - I read them with wonder. The little girl who had written them felt utterly remote to me.  I zipped up the bag and put them away again, all mixed up, all chaotic. Until today, when I thought I need to take another look, to be honest with myself. Were my memories correct?

I found the very first ones I wrote from Farnborough Hill. (If you don't want to read all three letters, just scroll down to the part in red which describes That Night and below the line of asterisks).

 

The missing postcards I mention in the first letter talk about our nightmare flight from Haiti to Jamaica to New York to London: my first flight without my parents, alone with my sixteen year old sister Claude. I used to get sick on any sort of transportation so my mother gave me dramamine, which knocked me out. Claude was excited to have company on the flight only I was no use at all: I was asleep while the plane was still sitting on the runway. There was a blizzard in New York so we were diverted to Washington and bussed to New York. Once there, as 'unaccompanied minors', we had to wait until all the passengers were sorted before something could be done with us. (Of course we had missed our connecting flight). I remember vividly standing in the airport looking longingly at a hamburger stand and thinking if Dad were here, he'd be waiting in line and he'd send us off with Mum to get a hamburger. I started to cry, which set my sister off, and soon people were clustered around, thinking we were hungry, asking if they could buy us a hamburger. But we just wanted our parents. I thought how stupid these grown-ups were not to realize that. Of course we couldn't say it out loud, we had to be brave... The airline put us up in a hotel for the night and I remember perking up a little to see a television, such a novelty, there was none in Haiti. Eventually we landed in London...

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Friday, September 17, 1965

Dear Mum and Dad,

Have you got our postcards? Golly, it was awful. And to top it off, we arrived at London at 9:30 on the V.C.10 and there was no-one to meet us! We stayed there till midnight and finally the stewardess in charge called the police to get the Timmins [my dad's childhood friend, who was supposed to meet our plane]! Luckily, they were just going to bed, so that was alright. We had a meal and went to bed at 1:00 a.m. We were woken up at 9:00 and had a gorgeous breakfast. Then we walked to Staines and bought my extra pair of socks. So don't worry about that. Oh, I say, what about my books, you know text-books? Are they coming? Have you ordered them? Good. At first when we got to school, I had a feeling like going to the dentist, but now it's all right. First Claude and I toured the school practically to find Alex [the headmistress, Mother Alexander] and Felicity [Claude's best friend]. I saw Claude's room and it's nice. Still, I'll let her explain it. We unpacked my trunk. Then we went to lunch and met Alex. I've met Maria, Gillian, Joanne and others but I don't know their names. I went to afternoon class and we had Geography, Religious Knowledge and French... There was tea but I wasn't very hungry and neither were some other girls so we skipped it. Now there's a study-period and I've almost finished this letter. When I have, I'll go and find Claude.

I wish you were here.

I've got to write again on Sunday, but I'll have more news so it won't matter. I miss you terribly.

PILES OF LOVE, Lots of love and lollipops, Love, Ali

Sunday, Sept. 19

Dear Mum and Dad,

My bed is terribly nice, it doesn't sag at all.

Yesterday I played netball for the first time. It's lots of fun.

I don't like Mrs. Hinton's sweets; they're nutty. Tell her they're very good.

This morning we had a meeting and Alex talked about rules and things.

I was almost late for breakfast as you have to wash (and the basins are MILES away) make your bed, and get dressed, all before breakfast. PHEW!

I've made three real friends, Susan, Maria, and Celia. Susan's my favorite. 

Oh yes, there are two clubs - Photo and Pottery. I'm in Pottery. We had our first lesson on Sat. We made coils of clay and next Sat. we're going to make a pot.

I can find my way around now. I don't know half the nuns names, but if you just say "mother" you're alright.

They've got super books here, Agatha Christie, you know.

Claude's got a terribly nice room. It wasn't before she put her junk around that it looked nice.

Our "dorm" as they say in Enid Blyton books, is meant to be the warmest in the school when the heating's on - unfortunately it isn't on now so it's about the coldest. However I'm quite warm.

The food's quite nice except today when we had bacon. UGH! All flabby.

Yesterday I reduced the whole table to laughter. I carried the tea tray to the kitchen and when I came back, I sipped my tea and said, "I feel like a char." [cleaning lady] I was sitting with St. Theresa's house (Claude and Felicity) and they roared. They thought they'd be stripped of their prefect blazers.

We're having a film tonight. Walt Disney, I think.

Anyway, I can't think of anything else. 

PILES OF LOVE AND KISSES, 

Lots of love,

Ali

Sept. 1965

Dear Mum and Dad,

Thank you for your lovely letter... Do write soon.

Answered Questions - Yes, mum, the pills [dramamine] were wonderful and though Claude felt a bit sick I was fine. I suppose you will have received our other letter by the time you get this one, and as they describe our trip, I won't write about London. I put on all of my woollen clothes and Claude the same, and the wind was blowing, and it was drizzling - BRRRRRRR! Still it was too bad. My first impressions, mum, was that it is quite nice, but now, after ten days without going out, I'm rather sick of it. The first few days I was lost but now, I know most of it. I go and see Claude in the evenings before bed. The first two nights, I wasn't homesick at all - but on the third - it must have been delayed reaction! I practically had the whole dormitory in tears. Then Claude came along and SHE started crying - it was GHASTLY. At last I stopped and Claude creeped up and gave me a packet of SMARTIES! Well, I had been on the verge of going to sleep, but I couldn't after that and so I just slept on and off. WHAT A NIGHT!! I'm alright, now, but I refuse to come to boarding school if Claude's not here.

Gosh, dad, the maths around here is VERY above my head. I have Mrs. Anscombe, who, you'll remember, kicked Claude and her group out and I'm sure I'll soon be following. We had these equations and I've never done them before, so I told her and she said, "What have you been doing then, learning your A,B,C?" Then she asked how old I was, and when I said eleven, she practically FAINTED! So I'm scared stiff I'm going to be moved down, but not if I can help it!

To go back to questions - I get a bath three times a week and otherwise I just wash my face and hands and teeth. I'm in 2C; don't worry, mum, it just is the name of our form-mistress, Mrs. Curren, do you get? Luckily, I sit next to the radiator which unfortunately, is not on. In the refectory I sit next to Yvonne, who you may have heard about from Claude, and a fifth-former called Helena something, they're both nice.

Yesterday, Sunday, Claude and my friends went out and so I stayed at school. Another friend is Bridget. She's very nice. Anyway, in the afternoon at Yateley, where the juniors go to school, there was a short procession to celebrate I don't know what. They wanted a few Farnborough Hill girls to be the choir. About 24 girls went and we sang in this procession. It wasn't very long and lots of parishioners joined and sang. Gosh, I practically had hysterics when this man with a deep voice started, "Sanctus...!" Golly, I nearly died! One old nun started singing in a quavery old voice and suddenly a young nun nudged her - she'd been singing the wrong tune!!! We got a nice tea there - biscuits and orange juice. It was much better than hanging around school!

Honestly, you know that K.T. [an ancient nun, mysteriously known by her initials] has a sweet shop [a closet] open on Sunday? Well, everybody came into the shop and was making a bit of noise, so she said, "I'm not putting up with this" and with that she closed the shop. What a SWIZZ.

Do you know at what time I am writing this letter? At around 7:00 in the morning! Gosh, it's the only time I've got time!

Yesterday, we didn't have too much homework so I wanted to finish it and write a letter to you in the rest of the time. But after tea, there was gym club. Susan and I have signed up for the same clubs; Alex said you had to join two clubs. We joined gym and dramatics, and I've got pottery, as well.

As I said, Susan is my best friend, but I'm friends with other girls, too. Susan's got a boil on her bottom and Mother Renny said she wasn't allowed to do games. She watched, though.

They're about 17 in the club and first the teacher, Miss Crofts, demonstrated different ways to do a head-over-heels. Then we had to do hand-stands (with someone holding us of course!) and end in a roll. After that, we had to vault over these huge boxes but I got stuck on top! Then you ran up this springboard, jumped over this bench, no sorry, vice versa, then end in a roll. It's lots of fun! Oh, mum, when are my shorts for Dicks and Jones [Dickens and Jones, department store in London that sold our school uniform] coming, because I had to do gym in my green knickers.

I sleep with my eiderdown lengthwise tucked in the bed (where I'm writing this right now!) though the pillow is very skinny, so I fold it in half.

Claude went out shopping on Saturday with Felicity and bought me some sweets and socks (long white ones). 

Well, the bell's gone off for getting up so I'll say ___ ____ ____ ____

PILES OF LOVE, ALI

P.S. Just think I'll be back in about 10 weeks and there you are!!!

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It's a strange sensation to come face to face with an early incarnation of yourself. My little girl lives, in these sheaves of paper decorated with blotchy hearts and flowers, in the messy writing, my first experience with a fountain pen, letters careening in all directions. I've put this little self so firmly out of mind, recalling her only in the abstract. After all, it is only in the last four years I have been able to admit to myself that boarding school was not a wholly positive experience. Typing out her words is entirely different to reading her words. The act of writing seems to fire up the traces of those original letters' paths in the brain and I feel again, as I did when I first wrote them, everything she isn't saying. She is so reticent! 

"Golly, it was awful" doesn't begin to cover it.  

By November, I have a motto: "Patience and Perseverance." I discover exclamation marks and pepper my letters with corny jokes and drawings of little girls with pigtails and a big smile, labeled ALI. I tease the nuns, get into trouble and make everyone laugh, including my parents. I learn not to write home about anything that matters. I am trying hard to adapt and fit in and make the best of things. How disorienting to more or less put my hand on the exact pages where the child I was morphed into this cheerful creature I became, veiling my anger, layering my hurt under winning smiles and a desire to please, no matter the cost.

I wondered how much to share of this story. Would it interest anybody? Then I remembered a getting-to-know-you exercise in a parent group years ago: Biography in a Bag. We had to choose five things that told something important about ourselves to put in a paper bag to share with the others. I brought my old school magazine, which had as its cover a photo of Farnborough. When I stood up to face the diverse group, I wondered if they would think me a privileged brat to share this experience. Would they think I was showing off? But when I talked about what it was like to be eleven years old and far from home, the women cried. That's when I realized that everyone has a boarding school story; everyone understands abandonment.

Victor has said we cling to our stories, we don't want to give them up, even, perhaps especially, the painful ones. Who are we without our stories? Like the Buddha meeting the man clutching handfuls of hot coals. The Buddha tells him,"Put down the coals! Your hands are burning!" "I can't!" says the man. "Why not?" "Because they are mine!" We fear we are nothing without them. 

Stephen Batchelor says, in Buddhism without Beliefs, "So what are we but the story we keep repeating, editing, censoring, and embellishing in our heads?" If I could let go of this story, would I? Without this story, don't I lose a big chunk of who I am? 

This is where it gets complicated, where the psychological and the spiritual work intertwine. They meet on the cushion and in my old letters. I close my eyes in meditation and I see my letters. They weigh me down. In my mind's eye, I write the words, uncovering the little girl in her own voice. Which was not a truthful voice. There was so much she didn't dare admit to her mother, to herself. I breathe - and the little girl breathes with me. She IS me. I focus on the body - our body - breathing, and feel what she felt then and what I feel right now. All I know today is a forty-five year old sorrow that finally I am safe enough, strong enough, to allow myself to feel. Today my little girl is free to finally drop her guard and let her heart go ahead and break. It's the only way to heal.