My teacher with a Napoleon Complex

The only time in all of my public school days that my father turned up at school, was to tell him off

First of all, I want to wish you a very happy and healthy New Year, dear reader. I can’t believe it’s 2023 already! I really appreciate your comments and am enjoying reading many of your substacks.

It’s funny thinking back to 1968 at Glen Eden Intermediate School. I was 10 when I arrived at the school for Form One, which today would be called Year 7. I remembered the names of some of my teachers, but not the one I had grief with.

There used to be a website in New Zealand called Old Friends, where I had posted school photos and shared information that I can no longer find. The site was closed down in 2016. But with the power of Facebook, I found a group, and within an hour or two, someone knew exactly who I was talking about.

Mr. Elliot was a short man, and this was the first time I came across Short Man Syndrome, aka the Napolean Complex. Some world leaders are said to have or have had this syndrome, including Hitler and Putin.

There were many cool kids in my class, some who joined me from Titirangi School, where they discovered that I was ‘gifted’, and some from Kaurilands and other schools in the area. Many became lifetime friends. You know, those friends who pop up from time to time in your life, at school reunions, randomly became neighbors, even work colleagues, or you just bump into each other. Within minutes, the years melt away, like a Mr. Whippy snow freeze ice cream on a hot summer’s day like today.

I really enjoyed going to school at Glen Eden Intermediate, playing hockey, singing in the choir, my first formal French lessons, and sampling the baking the girls brought out of cooking class. There were new opportunities like woodwork and metalwork. I got on with all my other teachers, never a problem.

I enjoyed jamming on the guitar with my friend Wayne Williams and made a lifetime friendship with my mate Bruce Fraser. We both experienced broken homes and that proved to be a catalyst for our becoming best friends.

At this time, my parents were still together, just, but there was a lot of fighting, arguing, thumping on walls, and crying going on at my home. It was a tough time for me.

So let’s get to it. My relationship with my homeroom teacher became tenuous within a month or so of starting.

Our home room teacher thought he was pretty clever, but he wasn’t, as I would soon discover. I have never suffered fools gladly and this was the first time I found myself challenging a teacher. I had always thought teachers were awesome, fonts of knowledge, caring for and wanting kids to do well. I found my first exception in Mr. Elliot.

In Form One, homeroom teachers still covered a lot of subjects themselves, the core ones like English, Maths, and Social Studies. He acted superior. He had an air of knowing everything and assuming we knew nothing. We were a class of bright kids, but most of our group just listened to him and ignored his gaffes. Perhaps he made them doubt themselves. It didn’t take long for me to correct him.

It started politely. He would put something on the board, perhaps an algebra problem, but he would get the answer wrong. I would put up my hand, wait respectfully for him to see me, and invite me to speak. “Excuse me Sir, but your answer is wrong. It says X = AC, so the answer must be 16.”

“OK, smarty pants! Come up to the board and show me what I did wrong if you are so clever!”

So I would, and he would come up with some retort like he was testing us to see if we would spot the error.

The errors would keep coming, it might be the capital of a country, the author of a book, the name of a politician, or another maths problem.

After a number of weeks, I became frustrated and began calling out corrections without having put my hand up, which was like a red rag to a bull. “You’re wrong sir, his name was Tenzing Norgay, not Tenzing Sherpa.” Mr. Elliot would walk over to me, “Oh really!!?” slamming his ruler on my desk, waking everyone in the room. If you got the angle right, slamming a ruler on a desk would make a very loud bang.

He and I became more frustrated with each other and eventually, he resorted to making me stand up for periods of time, at my desk, or sometimes outside of the door, where I would look in through the window, to teach me a lesson. He couldn’t beat me when it came to facts and I guess up until then, nobody had dared to challenge him, so he tried to embarrass me instead, but in reality, the only person standing out was him. Most of the time the kids knew he was wrong and I’m sure he would figure out that he was losing everyone’s respect.

Eventually, he resorted to coming over to me in my room, standing me up, and then physically pushing me around in front of the class. One day it got bad, he shoved me so hard that I went flying across the room, knocking over a few chairs and sending a desk flying, and I hurt myself. It wasn’t much, it was more fright than anything, but I ended up in the sick bay with a few bruises.

I told my parents what had happened and didn’t think any more of it until one day, after yet another of my corrections, he stood me up and commented something like “I suppose you are going to be a tough guy. and send your father to threaten me again!”

I had no idea what he was talking about. My father had not shown any interest in anything to do with my schooling.

He hadn’t been to my primary school for anything! He didn’t even turn up when I was performing in school plays. When I asked him about it that night, he told me that he had called the principal and then had a meeting with both of them, telling him that pushing around a ten-year-old kid was unacceptable. I told him that he hadn’t helped the situation. I asked him not to interfere again, even if it was well-intentioned.

My teacher made a few more comments about my bully father and eventually, I settled down and kept my thoughts to myself when my teacher made a fool of himself. I carried on enjoying the rest of my school life, while my life at home deteriorated, resulting in my parents separating while I was farmed between my parents, and some of their friends for most of that year.

At the end of the year on Boxing Day, I went to Holland to live with my grandparents and continued my schooling there.