The French Teacher

This is a series of paintings where I paint school teachers from memory, trying to get their essence in quick paintings from my cloudy mind.

I then write here any memories conjured up.

Mr Blair was a pleasant enough teacher. He was tall, camp and moved around in a carefree fashion. I didn’t understand much of what he said because he tended to speak in French quite a bit. He seemed like a practical man who didn’t waste his effort in a direction where he knew it wouldn’t be effective but instead gave his energy to those who showed enthusiasm. This is what I liked about him, he didn’t give a shit whether I paid attention or not.

He would refer to me as ‘Slammer Dobson,’ (slamming meant playing truant and Dobson used to be my surname before I changed my identity in an effort to forget my past.) He’d only reference me if he was saying to someone else, ‘You are away with the fairies today, just like Slammer Dobson over there’

I think after the first couple of weeks of attending his lessons and only learning ‘Je m’appelle Joel’ (Joel was my name before I changed it, I was born to the name Leon Hudson, my parents decided they didn’t like it so I was then called Joel Ives Hudson, Ives being my Great Auntie’s surname and my Grandmother’s maiden name, then my mother remarried and I became Joel Ives Dobson, then I changed my name by deed poll in 2011 to Jack Greenwood, Greenwood because that was my Grandparents name and they were the people I respected the most growing up and Jack because I was sick of people not understanding me when I introduced myself, Jack seemed clearer and less likely to be misheard) I didn’t write any other French in my exercise book. Am I allowed to put that many words in brackets, sod it, I’m feeling unruly, just like I was in school.

Instead of writing down any French I just drew pictures for an hour and secretly communicated with the girl who sat next to me. She was very intelligent and could hold down a whisper conversation with me whilst still hearing everything the teacher said and learning what she needed to know. I would draw pictures to amuse her and sometimes it got too much, and she’d laugh out and Mr Blair would flash a stern look in our direction and then carry on. She was one of the most attractive girls in our school and at one point was my girlfriend, she was warm and nice and pretty and funny, she smelt of flowers and had a cheeky beaming smile. Once in French she put her bare olive legs across my lap and whispered, ‘do you like my legs?’ ‘Yehhhh’ I said with hushed enthusiasm and nearly fainted with sheer joy. She left them there and was leaned sideways in her chair smiling at me with a pen held in her teeth. Mr Blair shouted, ‘Right that’s it, Susan, move... over here, I’m not having you distracted by Slammer Dobson’. Brief joy gone, I went back to my doodles.

Now I’m older I wish I’d have learned other languages. I’m quite a fast learner too. When I went to France in more recent years, I learned enough holiday French to get by in a week before going, I’m pretty good with accents too so when I ordered in a restaurant, waiting staff wouldn’t bat an eye. My favourite phrase was ‘Je voudrais une bouteille de vin rouge s’il vous plait’

When we used to go to Wales on holiday, I learnt a lot of Welsh which is ridiculously hard to pronounce and realised when I got there that no one spoke it everyday situations anyway.

My other half is originally from Korea but was adopted to England when she was a baby so can’t speak it. We both decided to learn it together. She would get jokingly pissed off when I learnt it so quick and would use it in Korean restaurants and get such praise from the owners, showing her up.

Also when I used to go to beautiful quiet little Greek islands, I’d learn a bit to get by and you’d think I was the first English person to do this as bar owners and restaurateurs would be so shocked by my efforts that they would insist on giving me free big glasses of Ouzo any time I went in.

The problem is, my brain is old and like a sieve, as soon as I stop using a language it disappears out of my mind forever within a couple of weeks, it’s infuriating.

I digress, half on purpose to mirror how useless a pupil I was, also to illustrate how education and me didn’t quite work for each other. I obviously find joy in learning language but don’t suit a classroom environment. I really would have loved to have learned French, alas, Ca n’etait pas pour etre.

Mr Blair and the rest of my year went on a school trip to La Rochelle in France for two weeks. I didn’t go for two reasons, the first being that my family couldn’t afford it and the second, I still wet the bed so it wouldn’t have been logistically possible without committing social suicide. I pissed the bed until I was thirteen. Soon after as a consolation my Great Auntie Dorothy took me on a coach trip around France, she was nearly 80 and it was one of the best holidays of my life.

My alienation as a weird pupil at school only increased though as only me and a handful of other poverty-stricken children from our year were left behind and had to be in a special class whilst they had the time of their lives in La Rochelle.

On returning, Mr Blair and my classmates had a special connection and love between them, the sort of bond you could only make through a special journey. I was jealous and I shrunk each time I heard them recalling the good times they had. When they first got back it felt like when you’ve had a quiet night in and a bunch of drunken or high flatmates burst in from the best night out they’d ever had and you soberly try and feign interest, then exit whilst trying not to be noticed.

This marked the point of where I became even more socially inept than I already was in School and in life, it was the last year of middle school and after that I was sent to an all boys school which I never attended so being an outsider and having no friends really set in and carried on to this day. Nevertheless, I suppose that makes me what I am and gives me good fuel for being and artist.

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Merci!