I have just returned from visiting my junior school for the first time in seven years.
I
was actually terrified about going back. My best friend, who I met at
the school when I was four years old, but continued until she was
eighteen after I left aged eleven, took me on a tour to see all my old
teachers and all the old classrooms. It hasn't changed. My teachers
remember me, I chatted to my reception teacher for nearly an hour about
our classmates. I remembered her as much younger. She's the same age as
my mother now. I loved her so much, and I have so many wonderful
memories of her, so it hurt a bit that it took her a push to remember
my name, but after that it all came flooding back to her. She
remembered my parents, what I was good at, how close I was to my best
friend, my haircut, even my aptitude for spelling.
It was as if
I'd never left. I saw the Junior Magistrate (some strange convent school role) who sent me a lovely card when I left, telling me to
always remember where I came from. She remembered me and I'd never
forgotten her. I saw my Third Form teacher, who'd completely forgotten
me. I saw my Upper II English teacher, who remembered me as if she'd
taught me yesterday. She hasn't changed either.
I am so thankful that I have had such a wonderful education. I will always remember the teacher I had at that school when I was eight years old. She was a wonderful woman who had had a difficult life. What I didn't know at the time she taught me was that she was battling breast cancer, and she died last year. My memories of her are fond, and I will keep them close to me always. All of these women, every last one, were, and still are, the women who shaped my life.