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  “Just a couple more shots of Jamie please?” the photographer replied.

  Without even thinking about it the teacher said, “Okay but quickly please at it is nearly time for milk and fruit”. “Why?” I thought to myself. “Why so many photo’s when I am not even a famous person” I continued think to myself in a confused way. Then suddenly but calmly, the photographer held my hand and we proceeded to go inside. This feeling was very reminiscent of my father holding my hand. That is one moment of ‘touch’ I recall vividly and I don’t know why still to this day.

  All the kids were playing games, reading books, some were even painting, which was my favourite activity. I thought he was taking me there, but no. We walked into another empty room behind. The photographer asked me to sit at a table and he put a jigsaw puzzle in front of me and asked me to just play. I was not comfortable about this. At that age, you just do as you are told and thought nothing of it.

  He took a few shots and the flashes were almost blinding. It was also very quiet in this room and I didn’t like it. He then pulled up a chair next to mine and did this strange stare at me close to my face. I now wished I had the guts to slap him.

  Without any warning, he was then rubbing the inside of my leg. It felt funny. It’s hard to explain. I was just thinking “Is this how he photographs the other children too? Is this normal?” I was confused, and my daddy did not do things like to me so it must be ‘normal’ was what I recall thinking, at that innocently young age. I knew though I should react or say something to distract him, although I should have screamed. This was the first time that I really wanted my father there, right there and then. 100 percent.

  “Oh, you have a little spot on your mouth”, he said tenderly.

  I didn’t reply and didn’t know how to. He spat on his finger and rubbed it on my lips. I remember thinking “Yuck!” At the same time baffled, why he was doing this. But I recall constantly thinking repeatedly if this is ‘normal’? Over and over and over. I kept trying to analyse the situation as best as a six year old could. Then a thought popped into my head.

  Because he was taking more photos of me than the other kinds, then perhaps I was given special treatment, like it was some sort of special approval. Thinking about this situation now, as vivid it is now permanently tattooed on my brain, it was not that. I was not special, just a victim, without any courage, or a voice. My shyness let me suffer.

  It was not until many years later, as I cannot erase it from my memory, all these ‘things’ he did to me had another semiotic meaning that had something to do with sexuality in a bad way. It felt awkward that the photographer showed these signs of affection that I was not used to, coming from an adult male. I will admit thought as I sit here thinking about exactly what happened and how it felt , it was strange, but it felt soothing but I knew it was wrong, I think. I felt like I was being loved by a male figure, like a father. To justify this statement it when he said to me after he, dare I say it, rubbed his revolting spit on my lips,

  “Jamie, don’t you miss not having a dad?”

  I had no idea what to say even though I know now what the answer was, or should have been.

  To this day I never told the kinder teacher about this, nor my mother. I have these kinder photos still today and looking at those photographs taken by that photographer produces a sense of voyeuristic scopophilia. It is strange and perhaps indicates the punctum of the beginnings of the discovery of my sexuality. Don’t get me wrong though, I did not enjoy it. But something inside of me was craving for the love of a father figure. It was sexual for me at the time. This may sound contradicting but I felt both violated and soothed in a immoral way. I miss my dad. That’s all.

  ………………………………………..

  I reached primary school by this stage for years we were kind of in a set routine as a ‘fatherless’ family but with a mother who loved us dearly. She adored my brother and I, and I kind of felt like her favourite, or at least I like to think I was. Yet I should mention too that not having a father felt normal by now, almost as if we did not need one. My mother was the breadwinner but it was not easy for her to work five days a week and raise two boys on her own, but we managed. Life by this stage was just as ‘normal’ and routine as a traditional nuclear family. We get up, get ready for school, mum gets ready for work, drops my brother and I at Oma’s, we go to school, mum goes to work, Oma picks us up from school, mum picks us up from Oma’s after work, and we go home.

  It was pure clockwork, and even though we did not have a lot of money, it worked. I was content with that. We were a small close family. Like I mentioned earlier, our heritage was German. I was proud of that. I used to listen to my Oma’s stories about her home village back in Germany. She also spoke about that dreaded war and her role as a nurse. I found it fascinating. My Oma’s interpretation of World War Two was not contrary to what we were slowly being taught at school. This is not to say she shed a good light on it, just explained it in real terms. School really projected a nasty perspective on Germany which kind of offended me. It was also one of things some kids bullied me about by calling me a “Nazi”. Although at primary school I was not really bullied, it was more like just kids being kids. I fit in well in primary school and had a lot of friends.

  It was also clear that she missed her beloved husband, who was my Oppa, or grandfather in German. I was very young when he suddenly died of a heart attack and only remember it vaguely. But I do remember that he was sick for some time but he loved my brother and I very much. That is one thing I do remember. I would have loved to have spent more time with him. It’s funny how death takes such a big chunk out of life. It’s just not fair. Not long after the death of my Oppa, shortly after I started primary school, probably about grade one or two (I think), I found myself in another bit of a situation.

  It was just another day at school and to my memory, I think, we were doing a ‘creative class’. What I remember was that I was (like always) playing in the back of the room on my own with Lego blocks. The teacher claims she told the class to pack up and I did not respond. For some strange reason I saw the other kids putting their stuff away but did not even think about it. I was almost like I was in some kind of trance, as normally if you see everyone pack up, then you would do the same. I didn’t and cannot understand why still to this day. So the teacher walked up to me, bent down to my level, stroked my head as said;

  “Jay, didn’t you hear me sweetie?” she said to me in a soft voice.

  To tell you the truth I really cannot remember what, or if, I said anything. This was a really weird feeling at that time. It was like I was having an out of body experienced and it was not until the teacher spoke to me that I snapped out of it. So the question begs, “Did I actually hear the teacher?” I still have no idea. Therefore the teacher thought I had a hearing problem.

  “Why did you not pack up your toys” she asked. To my memory I do remember saying, “Didn’t hear you”. It was very strange and not sure how to describe it, but maybe it was a delayed reaction. The truth is, and this is just a theory, that perhaps I did hear the teacher call out to the class for something, but I ignored it as I could not really figure out what she was saying. So I continued to play with my Lego. (I was a ‘Lego addict’! by the way). Without getting to Freudian about it, in retrospect, I was always building colourful homes with Lego blocks and they all had the clichéd structure of a chimney, two front windows, colourful flowers and plants, and a family of four, including a father. Go figure.

  Sorry for going off topic for a moment but back to this situation. So naturally after the teacher spoke to me she helped me pack up my things as the other kids were waiting patiently at their desks, waiting for me. I sat at the back of the class next to my best friend at that time named ‘Anthony’. I remember him well and we were best buddies. The teacher started to gather my pens, pencils and books from my desk and I stood there feeling like I did something ‘naughty’. She whispered something to a girl sitting in the front of th
e class, assuming to ask her to move to my desk. The teacher asked me to sit in the front of the class, in what was that girls’ space, and I remember feeling both sad and humiliated. No longer was I not sitting next to my best mate, which at that age was mandatory otherwise you feel kind of alienated. I really had no other choice but to sit there. Anyway after the school bell rang at three-thirty on the dot, the teacher politely asked me to stay behind. Again, I thought I did something wrong. Al the kids left and Anthony approached me before leaving and the teacher asked him to leave. So I did not get a chance, or he, to say anything.

  “Don’t worry Jay-Jay, you have not been naughty” she said cheerfully.

  I remained seated and felt stiff as a board. She knelt down and politely asked;

  “Did you really not hear me when I asked everyone to pack up, or did you ignore me?” she continued. Confused about the ‘fuss’ I simply shrugged my shoulders. Then she started clicking her fingers in my left ear and said “Can you hear that?”

  “Yes” I replied immediately whilst thinking “What is she doing and why?”

  She did exactly the same thing to my right ear and I said that I can hear the clicks. She then asked me to go to the back of the room, to exactly the same place I was before playing with Lego. But this time with my back turned and seated with my legs crossed, facing the wall. I sat there for about a full minute or so and she came up and lightly patted my shoulder. We both sat down again at my desk and she leant over speaking directly to my face and speaking softly and empathetically, “You did not hear that did you?” “Hear what, Miss?” I said politely. “When you were seated facing the wall, I clapped my hands” she replied slowly as if I was deaf. On the contrary this is what she was getting at. That I have a hearing problem which is something that never would have occurred to me. So anyway she said she will call my “mummy for a chat”. I thought this was totally unnecessary as I really don’t think I have a hearing problem. It is, or was, something else. At that time I had no idea what it was, but it definitely was something.

  Anyway my mum was called at her office and she arrived at the school quick as a flash. She worked on the other side of Melbourne, but she arrived so quickly within 20 minutes! Obviously my mother being as protective as she was, literally threw everything down to tend to her son who has an alleged ‘hearing problem’. But yes my mum arrived in a panic and I remember looking so worried about me. She and the teacher had a chat just in front of me. She explained to my mum the situation and although they were speaking only centre metres away from me, all I could hear were mumbles, not exact words. Perhaps I do have a hearing problem and then I began to worry myself. I remember this next bit specifically.

  As my mum and teacher were speaking to each other, I looked down at the floor in a daze and felt scared. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I was scared of but the fear inside was growing and growing. It felt like a monster inside of me but then the unexpected happened. Suddenly I hear the following spoken sentence from my mother speaking to my teacher; “…but my boy is going to be alright, isn’t he?” I heard it loud and clear, then the panic set back inside of me and then everything just sounded a bit fuzzy. As I think about it now, I believe it was not totally my ears, or hearing, that was the major issue. It was anxiety. This was my first experience of it which was the start of things to come uninvited.

  …………………………………………….

  The next day at precisely nine am, I thought would be just another day at school, hoping I would return to sitting back next to my best friend. But no, things changed. I had to sit in the front of class, and I was now treated differently. Now I was beginning to feel different. My teacher spoke to the class, then in a humiliating way would repeat the same sentences to me in a louder tone, directly to my face and end it with “…..did you understand that Jay?” This was embarrassing as of course I could hear her! Her slow talking, and singling me out as a student with ‘special needs’ (apparently now), felt more sarcastic than empathetic. Realistically, I knew it was not her intention but the amount of fuss over this so-called ‘hearing issue’ was a bit over the top. This was a bit of a misdiagnosis because it is not just my ears that was the problem. I wanted to just tell her that it is a much bigger problem, but I had no idea how to describe it. It just felt like I go into moments of trance for a few seconds, panic, my hearing cuts out, then I come back down to Earth again. Yet, I still could not tell her, or my mother, that as at that age, anxiety or panic attacks don’t exist. Or so they say, as I had not heard of the word ‘anxiety’ before. As for ‘panic attacks’, for an eight or nine year old, that would be an urban myth. This was very real though and I was too shy to say anything at all. I wish I did.

  By this stage I was now facing the humiliation of going to ‘special classes’ for students who are ‘not normal’. That was my perception and I felt like a freak. ‘Special class’ was simply just the same as what we were being taught in class but with LOUDER and SLOWER words. I could not help but to just continually roll my eyes, but I had no choice in the matter. ‘Special class’ was also not considered as ‘cool’ either. Sad but true. As the other students now witness me going to these class, and all knowing about my ‘condition’ this caused a bit of controversy at the school.

  In addition to the delivery of my education taking a new sudden direction, the school arranged for a hearing specialist to visit me at school and I had to do some hearing tests. To my surprise they discovered that I had in fact something wrong with my hearing but in an odd way I can’t explain. I really did not understand all this and just went along with it. Of course it was brought to the attention of my mother and she became even more concerned. I thought I could hear quite well. But apparently this was not the case. I could hear but it was selective hearing induced through anxiety and not by choice. Anyway, I had really nice looking ears! I still do by the way, they are very sexy ears. Well, that is basically the only part of my anatomy I have full confidence in flaunting. It was what was happening inside that counted. And no, before you ask, I do not have an ear fetish as a result of this!

  For weeks I found myself being dragged back and forth to ear specialists. On top of this my mother had to make huge sacrifices to support this drama. She had to leave work early, miss hours of work, which meant less money, and had to fork out money for my specialist treatments. I have no idea how she managed, but she did, and I just felt like the meat in the sandwich, as I was not in any pain. Being at a young age you really only associate anything medical related to pain or physicality. So because I was not suffering in physical pain, as such, or look any different to the next kid on the block, I could not comprehend with the fuss. I really kept thinking this was all so unnecessary as I could actually hear well. So all in all, it became confirmed by the ear specialists and doctors, I had a serious ear condition. But what exactly I was still uncertain.

  It was not long, probably about a couple of weeks that I booked in hospital for an operation. I really cannot recall my reaction at that time, whether it was fear, or sadness, or just banal. On the day the ear specialist announced in his office to my mother I have to have an ear operation, all I heard was medical jargon. My mother tenderly interpreted it to me saying that I have to have ‘tubes’ in my ears.

  “Have what?” I said whilst being totally bewildered.

  “Tubes darling, they don’t hurt, it will help your hearing, and you won’t feel a thing, so there is nothing to worry about”, mum said in a soft, loving tone.

  The doctor sitting in front of us interrupted as said,

  “Jay, you only have very tubes inserted into ears to drain out excess fluid which is causing the occasional blockages to your hearing”, he said. (Well, I think this is what is said along those lines by memory, but it was something like that). Remarking I did not feel scared about my first experience about undergoing an operation in a hospital and my mother reassumed this,

  “I will bring in your school work so you won’t fall behind, and I will visi
t you every day and bring lots of pressies!” she said cheerfully but with a slight glaze over her eyes. I felt she was upset and I could feel her concern. I know my mother too well to know what she is really thinking.

  Getting to hospital was more streamlined than I thought and acted upon very quickly that it gave me little time to even think about what I about to experience. The reality which is one I cannot ignore is my poor mother eventually had to find the money for me to have an ear operation. I really don’t know how she managed it but I will never forget how much she cared for me.

  I was in the children’s ward and already I was making friends with the kids the ward next to me. The nurses and doctors were also genuinely nice, friendly and welcoming. They really went out of their way to ensure we were comfortable. Surprisingly the food was really good, too good to be truthful, chocolate mousse and all! Prior to my operation, which was to happen the next day after arrival, I was also spoilt rotten in hospital being showered with gifts from mum. Again, I don’t know how my mother could have afforded all this. But I knew she worked hard. I also received a large card signed by all my class mates telling me “get better soon” and a couple of soft toys which kind of made me feel special in a good way.

  Operation day; about 7 am, and breakfast in our ward was about to be served. The scent of toast was a familiar and homely feel but today I was not getting any of it. The trolley lady serving breakfast approached my bed, took a quick glimpse about my head on the wall, smiled, and then walked on. I wondered by so I sat up in bed and looked at the same spot the lady did. It said in big bold black letters;

  NILL BY MOUTH

  Confused (and hungry) I asked one of the nurses what this sign means and she explained that I cannot have anything to eat before the operation. She explained why although I really did not totally understand why. She did reassure I can eat after I wake up from the operation.