Friday, March 21, 2008

Childhood Trauma

I was reflecting today on childhood traumas. The most striking was of course the "Farmer in the Dell." This demonic exercise devised no doubt from the netherworld was fraught with pain. It begins with the Saddam like tyrant that we all referred to as "The Teacher".

(Note: my apologies to the little girls who remember these experiences with great joy and went on the emulate "The Teacher" as their model of womanhood but who, for little boys, became the object of pain and anguish--particularly in eighth grade--but that is a blog for another day).

"The Teacher" arbitrarily selects one to become "The Farmer". Total power and control. They and they alone will pick "The Wife". The children, hand in hand (and don't think that's not traumatic for a little boy) parade around the "The Farmer" chanting the mantra that we are all so familiar with-"The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell...." Then comes the time to choose. The music stops. The children freeze in anticipation. "The Farmer" hesitates, drawing out his control of the world. Nothing can happen until "The Farmer" chooses. Then finally "The Wife" is selected. If "The Farmer" selects a girl then he is exposing himself to ridicule by his fellow larvae. If he selects a boy then he is safe but the little boy becomes marked for life as "The Wife". This may be the cause of same gender attraction. Hmm?

So the scarring begins. Next we move through the phylogenic order--"The Child", "The Dog", "The Cat", "The Mouse", until we come to the end of the pecking order. The least of these my brethren. "The Cheese." As a fitting punishment for this dreg of society he is shunned and abandoned, for indeed, "The Cheese" stands alone. But there is a glimmer of hope. If there is a next round then "The Cheese" becomes "The Farmer" and regains all that was lost and becomes omnipotent. Like the Phoenix rising from the ashes "The Cheese" may become the master of his destiny. But there is an obstacle, "The Teacher."

Please note that "The Cheese" is always a boy. Is this because in the 1950's all farmers were, indeed, men or was it that the teachers were all women and took this opportunity to exercise retribution on the male population that was now under their total control? Yeah.....both.


"The Cheese" looks desperately at the clock to see how much time is left in play time, but remembers, in anguish, that he can't tell time for he is in kindergarten and has yet to be given the paper plate, paper fastener and two clock hands that would give him the power of time.

Instead he focuses on "The Teacher" pleading in his little boy's heart, "oh please, oh please, don't let me die as 'The Cheese.'" Remaining the cheese for the rest of the day only brings pain both emotional and physical as the other little boys rain a continuous series of karate chops upon his person while wailing "I cut 'The Cheese-I cut 'The Cheese.'"

"The Teacher" looks at him. Their eyes lock and he knows his life, as he knows it, has come to an end.

Oh the horror.


3 comments:

Rebecca Pierce said...

Shoot, we didn't play that when I was young. Maybe it is because the teachers of my generation had suffered so playing it themselves. We did less interesting things like "heads up 7-up" and others that I can't remember. The horror of my young childhood had to do with maturation, and I'm sure won't ever be the topic of a post on my blog, though it is the topic of many a "ladies' night" conversation.

Amanda said...

Thinking back on my traumas...I have 1 that I'm willing to talk about. The others still make me feel like 'the cheese.'

Super Sneezes

You know what I mean...you think it's an innocent sneeze--then you feel it. Cold, slimey, all the way down to your lip. The panicked walk of shame to the kleenex box guarded so closely on the teacher's desk. Hand over your mouth, can't talk or you'll taste it. Can't ask for a tissue, just point and plead with your eyes, praying you haven't exceeded your tissue quota for the week.

Maybe it was just my teachers, but they all kept the tissue far away from us to be doled out only if we could prove we really needed it. And they wondered why we used our shirtsleeves...

HoneyGram & Papa said...

The trauma for me which is worse than 'the cheese' was to never get picked. Every little girl's dream was to be 'the wife'. My 2 umarried daughters still feel that sting.

La Boheme

Why I Love Opera!